


Inheritance

by JeliBelski



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: (some pre-canon), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon Continuation, Eventual Romance, F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 187,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeliBelski/pseuds/JeliBelski
Summary: A year after immigrating to Elysium, Mor Ardain teeters on the verge of a war of succession. The best hope of maintaining peace? An Ardanach heir. Meanwhile, Tantal pressures Zeke for an heir of their own. Trapped by the thought of a loveless political marriage, Zeke makes a surprising suggestion. But if the relationship has any hope of working, Morag must come to terms with her own past...and Niall's true identity.
Relationships: Zeke von Genbu/Meleph | Mòrag Ladair
Comments: 366
Kudos: 219





	1. Sins and Successors

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all--first time poster here (yes, I know I'm super late to the XC2 fandom, but whatever). I'd originally planned on doing a one-shot for my first post, but well. This story came into my head and I couldn't help but write it. Hope you enjoy!

“He went this way. I’m sure of it,” Brighid said confidently, the ether still rippling around her.

After hours of pursuit, they were finally gaining on him. Tracking had never been Mòrag’s strong point. Despite her own meticulous attention to detail, broken blades of grass and loose stones always eluded her when they were chasing down a criminal. Thankfully, Brighid’s keen eye ability came in handy for missions like this one.

Shame we have to use it so frequently, even here, Mòrag thought bitterly as she followed quietly behind her Blade. 

In the year since Alrest’s citizens had joined Elysium, a lot had changed. The fear of vanishing titans disappeared. Food grew in abundance, and hunters found more quarry than they could possibly gather. Eager explorers embarked on quests to find the wonders of the new world. All of the nations staked their claim to more territory than they could have dreamed of.

But, unfortunately, that extra territory and unwieldy national boundaries created something of a catastrophe when it came to crime. Mor Ardain had always struggled with a criminal underworld, only now it had risen to the surface of their now-massive continent. To the west, Uraya had proven reluctant to extradite criminals back to the empire. The eastern Gormotti territories were more cooperative, eager to prove to their sovereign that they merited their independence. 

But here, along the northern reaches by the Tantal border, stretched a vast rugged wilderness with few inhabitants—the perfect sanctuary for criminals.

“He’s close,” Brighid said quietly. “Fresh prints.”

“Be on the lookout for caves and hideouts,” Mòrag ordered the men behind her. She unsheathed a single whipsword. The criminal probably wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

“Yes, ma’am,” came the dutiful response.

Mòrag took a mental note to have the border units brush up on their field skills. These four soldiers fought capably enough, but if it weren’t for Brighid, the suspect would be long gone.

Worse, they were chatterboxes.

“What is she doing here, anyway?” one whispered to his companion. “With everything that’s going on at home, apprehending scum like this seems too trivial for the Special Inquisitor.”

“Hell if I know,” the other said.

“My captain said she took a personal interest in this case. Insisted on coming,” said a third.

“To catch a serial rapist? Seems odd.”

Mòrag cleared her throat. “Choosing missions is the Special Inquisitor’s own right. And I chose to come here. That is all you need to know."

The four men looked at their shoes, falling silent.

"Lady Mòrag, there he is!" Brighid exclaimed.

There was a flurry of activity as the cornered criminal burst from the cave where he'd been hiding. A uniform hung loose about him, tattered and frayed. An Ardainian uniform, sure enough.

"Don't let him get away!"

Mòrag broke into a run, her companions on her heels. Her natural agility and fresh legs proved to be no match for the criminal, who'd been on the run for at least a week. They were gaining on him—and fast. 

"We will take him head-on," Brighid shouted as they drew close, easily deducing Mòrag's plan. "You flank him so he cannot flee, but do not engage. He's ours."

"As you wish!"

Brighid fell in stride beside Mòrag, drawing the second whipsword from its sheath on her driver's hip. They would take him alive if they could, but no one would be mourning his death, either. Certainly not his nine victims. The fleeing man seemed to grasp that he was not going to be able to escape on foot and turned to face his pursuers. His lance glimmered in the sunlight, but the steel could not rival the cold gleam in his eyes. 

“Cor Baragh,” Mòrag said loudly, finally coming to a halt a few feet away from the man. “By the authority of His Imperial Majesty, you are under arrest for desertion, the murder of two Ardainian soldiers, and the abduction and rape of nine women.”

Cor grinned. “Hah, shows what you know. It was ten women, Inquisitor. Although technically one was a minor, so I guess you could say your intel was still correct.” 

Mòrag stifled a shiver as the man—psychopath seemed the better word—eyed her up and down. “Your crimes are akin to treason, Cor. Your sentence will be harsh.”

“And how harsh will it be if I make my number an even dozen?”

Suddenly the air was hot with flame. Before Cor knew what was happening, the edges of two fiery whips flashed mere centimeters from his neck. He recoiled, his skin pink and blistering. Mòrag and Brighid snapped the swords back into swords in perfect unison. 

“Speak again and I will incinerate your tongue,” Brighid spat. 

The four soldiers in Mòrag’s company shuddered. They all knew the Flamebringer’s reputation; Imperial appointment or not, no one made it to her station in the army without incredible skill. Rumors said that angering her meant an early trip to hell. But this righteous fury made the rumors seem tame. 

“Drop the weapon, Cor.”

“Come over here and make--”

A bullet of blue flame shot into Cor’s mouth. He screamed in agony.

“I warned you,” Brighid said, her voice eerily calm.

Cor collected himself surprisingly quickly. The hunger in his eyes turned to malice, and he charged at the two women, lance held high.

Mòrag parried his blow effortlessly. In truth, Cor had no chance against them, surrounded and outnumbered as he was. But the man certainly put up a brilliant fight. His stabs were quick and calculated. The weight of his weapon never betrayed him, and he used it to his advantage, blocking here, parrying there, using both ends to slow Mòrag’s swords. Against such a heavy weapon, Mòrag couldn’t easily convert her weapons to whips. The maneuver left her wide open for too long. She wasn’t sure she could parry the weighty lance with only one in blade form, either. 

How this man had not been recruited as a driver was beyond her. Doubtless he had the aptitude for it. But as she unleashed Blaze, she was grateful for it. An ether shield could have blocked Brighid’s flames easily. But with no Blade, Cor had to rely on his own reflexes.

Cor jumped back as Mòrag’s flames licked at his fingers. Brighid, in perfect sync, pulled two daggers from her belt and flung them at him, following it up with more streams of flame. He stepped back once, twice.

That bought Mòrag the time and space she needed. Swords flashed into whips and hurtled towards the man. With no time to parry, he threw the lance like a javelin. It only made it a few inches into Brighid’s ether barrier before it fell to the ground with a dull thud. 

“Right where I want you,” Mòrag taunted.

Her blow connected, each whip lashing around Cor’s outstretched wrists. She snapped them tight. The man stopped short, bound. Just the slightest movement, and he’d find himself without hands. Even a fool could tell that much.

An Ardainian soldier rushed forward and grabbed Cor’s fallen lance. Another clumsily pulled handcuffs from his belt, gingerly attaching them to the upper parts of the convict’s wrists. 

“Now, Cor, as much as I’d love to chop your hands off, I’m afraid it’ll make the cuffs useless. They’ll probably have your head anyway...Let’s move out, everyone.”

Mòrag retracted her whips from Cor’s wrists and turned to take the path they’d come in on. Brighid trailed behind her, and the four soldiers wordlessly fell into formation around their new prisoner. No one spoke. In fact, the only noise was that of their own footsteps...and the occasional whimper from Cor, who found that the handcuffs had settled uncomfortably into the burn marks on his wrists.

“...Well done, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid said quietly.

“I’m ashamed that he eluded us for so long,” Mòrag replied. Ten victims, he’d said. The army had known he had been at large since his third victim, and yet they hadn’t tracked him down until after he had ruined the lives of seven others. The incompetence of her own forces stung.

“It isn’t your fault.” 

“There are more of him, Brighid. We catch one and another takes his place. That cannot stand.”

“A task for another day, my lady.”

The journey back to the outpost would take them the rest of the day; they had chased Cor across five miles of wilderness, and the afternoon light was already drifting away towards the west. 

Now that Cor was in custody, Mòrag was eager to get back to the capitol. In truth, a pang of guilt struck her chest when she thought about how long she’d been away. Granted, Niall gave her his blessing to come on this expedition, but he would not have admitted how much he needed her in court. Cor could have been apprehended by one of the outpost’s captains. And yet, Mòrag prioritized taking Cor into custody personally. Not her wisest decision, but still, she didn’t regret it.

She always slept better the night after capturing a criminal like Cor.

“Do you hear that?” Brighid asked, stopping.

A second later, the roar of an airship echoed through the wastes. They looked about for the source of the noise but saw nothing. Then all at once, the sound was right above them. An Ardainian craft had broken through a cloud overhead. It hovered in place, and a rope ladder dropped from the ship’s hull. Someone peeked out from the hatch, arms waving. 

Mòrag glanced at the man. By the helmet, she could tell that he was a member of the Imperial Guard. And the ship...it was not a warship by any means, but the gold filigree and latest titan-controlling technology told her that this wasn’t a typical military skimmer. That was one of Niall’s private vessels. But what was it doing here? They’d have to climb aboard and investigate. 

“Escort this criminal to your outpost for processing,” Mòrag shouted to her men. “Do not wait for me, and do not lose him.”

The soldier saluted, forming a tighter rank around the criminal. 

Brighid nodded to her driver, and the pair took hold of the ladder. While it pulled them up—even with a winch, the ascent was terribly slow—Mòrag looked around. Even after a year in Elysium, she still felt overwhelmed by the vast stretch of the continent and its beauty. Even Tantal, which was reportedly quite cold (though a marked, inhabitable improvement compared to Genbu), boasted gorgeous mountains.

I wonder how Zeke is doing, she thought. Of all of her traveling companions, she’d seen Zeke the most. Rex was off in Leftheria with Pyra, or Mythra. She was still both Blades, but according to Rex, she had lost the ability to change between them. The explosion at the World Tree had damaged her somehow. According to their letters, Rex had convinced her to start therapy; switching at random had proven difficult for them. They young Driver had scribbled something about Mythra and a kitchen fire at Corinne's. Meanwhile, Nia had taken to wandering again, eager to explore the world at a leisurely pace without needing to fear Indol. And as for Tora, well, the nopon had taken on some sort of new artificial blade project that had made him all but a hermit the last year. "Must use all World Tree technology inspiration before forgetting," he'd muttered and vanished into his new laboratory.

Zeke, however, had been a frequent visitor to Mor Ardain. After all, the heads of state had spent considerable time negotiating new boundaries and other government affairs. But since the day rough maps had been drawn—they’d be solidified as outposts and other buildings were erected along borders—the Tantal prince had been busy in his homeland. 

Not that his return home had come as much of a surprise. The king was getting on in years, and Eulogimonos had restored Zeke as his heir mostly out of necessity. The prince doubtless had a lot of governance training to catch up on. 

Not that she had time to spare to visit her friends, anyway. Warmth surrounded Mòrag as she stepped into the hold of the airship and made her way to the main deck. The crew was sparse, even for a ship this small. She frowned. Had they prepared at all before coming out here? 

Then she caught sight of the ship's commanding officer: a tall, stoic Blade with unflinching eyes and clear streams of water for hair. His hand rested on the hilt of a chroma katana. 

"Aegeon," Brighid gasped. "What are you doing here?"

His face was unreadable as ever. "His Majesty sent me. Your presence is urgently needed in the Capitol."

Mòrag felt another pang of guilt. So she shouldn't have come out here after all. Even though Aegeon's face showed no concern, she knew how desperate the situation must have been. Aegeon's presence proved it. Technically speaking, he was still her Blade. But after they'd landed in Elysium and informed him about his role as the emperor's personal guard, Aegeon had requested to return to his lord's side. Mòrag gladly agreed. She felt content with Brighid's aid alone, and more than anything, her confidence regarding Niall's safety was best with the water Blade at his side. 

Niall had been relieved to have Aegeon back, too, even without the depth of their former bond. So for Niall to send him here, the situation was undoubtedly a huge concern. 

"What is going on, Aegeon?" Mòrag asked as the airship turned around and chugged back to Alba Cavanich. 

"I do not know, my lady. His Majesty did not say. He ordered that someone find you with the utmost urgency. Since we are in resonance, it was easiest for me to track you down."

“...What are your suspicions, Aegeon? Surely you have a guess,” Brighid said.

“I do not presume to know His Majesty’s mind. But he sent me immediately after the Senate recessed.”

The fact that Aegeon did not know the details probably worked out for the best; had he been able to tell them the details, Mòrag would have stewed over the details the entire trip home. The flight was not long, though. Even though Elysium was vast, there was no Cloud Sea separating their borders. International travel was faster than ever even though the land available to them had increased at least tenfold. For now, that fact was convenient. But if war ever broke out between the countries, it would be uglier than ever. Mòrag hoped that day would never come.

At last, the capitol came into view. 

“It still doesn’t feel like home,” Brighid sighed. “No geothermal factories, clean air, and fertile farmland. We’ve never had that. If not for the palace, I’d feel like a foreigner!”

Mòrag hummed in agreement. Where there had once been steam, exhaust, towers, and a skyline of harsh metal now stood...very little. Mor Ardain was, in effect, starting from scratch. Their titan had sunk; their industry vanished with it, along with all their infrastructure. The people had taken to rebuilding entirely new structures inspired by the natural beauty around them. 

And yet, Alba Cavanich stood as an exact replica of its former glory. In the midst of all the uncertainty of the immigration to Elysium, Niall wanted the palace to act as a symbol of the monarchy’s constancy and resolve. 

“Ah, Lady Mòrag, welcome back,” an attendant said when they entered the palace. “His Majesty is with his council right now. He’s asked that you join him.”

Mòrag and her Blades entered the throne room quietly to avoid disturbing the proceedings. But given the chaos, they might as well have burst in. 

“They’ve already passed the bill, Your Majesty! If their no confidence vote succeeds, not only will you be ousted, but the very ruling model of this country will be destroyed. Mor Ardain cannot take such a radical change!” One counselor shouted.

“I can overrule them by decree. The bill cannot become law without my consent,” Niall insisted.

“Brionac and Gardic are unified on this front. With them and a few others, they can overturn your veto,” said another counselor. 

“What recourse is there, then?” Niall demanded.

His eyes circled the counselors around the table. He caught sight of Mòrag, and his expression filled with both delight and relief. “Ah, Special Inquisitor. Please, join us.”

The counselors bowed their heads as Mòrag took her customary seat beside the young emperor. The two Blades took their places behind the two royals. 

“What has happened, your Majesty?”

Niall exhaled deeply. “It’s no secret that the Senate and several noble houses have been trying to gain power over the throne in recent years. It seems that they’ve finally found a method to do so. They’ve passed a provisional bill that would allow them to call for a...vote of no confidence in the emperor. According to the wording of the bill, if the vote passes and there are no current heirs to the throne, they can install a replacement of their choice.”

Only a raised eyebrow betrayed Mòrag’s own shock. By law, the Senate could not oust the emperor on their own. Ardainian law clearly dictated that the imperial throne passed through the Ardanach line. That was incontestable. Since the previous emperor's death, the question of succession had been something of a taboo. Technically, Mòrag ought to ascend the throne if anything happened to Niall, but the truth was that Mor Ardain preferred male emperors. There had only been two empresses in centuries of history. And it was a well-known fact that the Brionac party had cadet branch nobles who'd been hoping for their chance to bid for the crown even before Niall was born. 

Even the common folk whispered about the end of the Ardanach line drawing near. Most feared that Niall would go childless, like his father. And no one viewed Mòrag as the mothering sort. 

"Gardic has always been loyal to the crown," Mòrag replied. "Why the change of heart?"

"Gardic is conservative to a fault. Normally they oppose every bill Brionac puts out. But they think that I have been too aggressive in my demands for land and resources here in Elysium. Brionac doesn't think I was aggressive enough. Both are discontent enough to want to oust me, I suppose," Niall explained. 

"Now is not the time for a change like that, even if it were warranted." Mòrag clenched her fists underneath the table. The concern on Niall’s face hit her like a punch in the gut. She would have preferred a punch, really.

"We know that, Lady Mòrag," an advisor began, "but the Senate is anxious. In their eyes, installing a new house with heirs apparent would be less worrisome than forcing his Majesty to abdicate."

"So we stall the bill," Mòrag suggested. "Appease the Gardic party so they wouldn't pass the no-confidence vote." 

Some of the council nodded tentatively. 

"It could be done, but I fear such a solution would only be temporary. They’ve found a way to constitutionally replace you. They will not relent easily. Especially not Brionac.”

The oldest counselor cleared his throat. Mòrag held her breath. He was one of the few politicians who did not seem enthralled with the sound of his own voice. And his wisdom was unparalleled; he had served two other emperors before Niall. 

“...An heir nullifies the desired effect of their bill. Perhaps it is time Mor Ardain had one.”

“I could formally appoint a successor,” Niall offered. “The paperwork would be relatively simple.” 

“Not a successor, Your Majesty. A continuation of the Ardanach bloodline. An heir.”


	2. To Protect an Emperor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm shooting to update this fic every 7-10 days, and this is day 8. Mission accomplished. Hope you all enjoy it!

“Ugh, _please_ just set me on fire, Brighid,” Mòrag complained. “Death by flame would be a much nicer fate.”

Brighid laughed. “I have a strict policy against turning my Driver into a human torch. And don’t blame me. As memory serves, you _volunteered_ for this.”

“No, I volunteered to produce an heir. I did not volunteer for _this.”_

Mòrag gestured at the collection Brighid had strewn across her bed: dresses. Of all the things she’d endured in the past weeks, the prospect of dressing up was by far the worst. Makeup, fancy etiquette, dancing, and pretentious nobles...it was not how Mòrag wanted to spend her birthday.

If only she could go back to the council meeting a week ago, she might have kept her mouth shut.

_“Not a successor, Your Majesty. A continuation of the Ardanach bloodline. An heir.”_

The council’s intent had been all too clear: they wanted Niall to pick a random noble, marry her, and produce an heir...and soon. Mòrag overreacted; the council had never seen her lose her composure like that. But the thought of Niall being forced into a loveless arranged marriage, and so young—for Architect’s sake, he was just barely fourteen—the thought angered her so fiercely that the words burst out of her mouth.

“I will do it. By law, I’m an Ardanach. I’ll produce an heir.”

And yet, she didn’t regret it, either. Sure, the thought of marrying a random stuck-up noble made bile rise in her throat. But everything she’d ever done in her life had been for the sake of protecting Niall. This wasn’t all that different. But instead of protecting him on the battlefield, she was protecting him in the political arena. 

Once the counselors had peeled their jaws off the floor after her outburst, they agreed quickly. In fact, only Niall objected to the proposal. But despite the Emperor’s protests, arrangements burst into existence. Within a day or two, rumors that the Flamebringer intended to find a husband covered the entire empire. As for _how_ that would happen—that was where the dresses came in. 

In three days’ time, Alba Cavanich would host its first gala since immigrating to Elysium. The pretense: celebrating the Special Inquisitor’s birthday. Of course, the party would merely provide Mòrag with an “easy opportunity to mingle with the Empire’s most eligible bachelors,” as one royal counselor had put it. Either way, everyone in Mor Ardain buzzed with frivolity at the promise of a social event.

Mòrag, however, did not share in the excitement. 

“When was the last time the Empire formally celebrated your birthday?” Brighid asked, picking up a simple purple gown. She held it up to Mòrag, scrunched her nose, and tossed it aside. 

“I was sixteen. My coming-of-age celebration,” Mòrag said.

“You were an adult long before that,” Brighid mused. 

Mòrag nodded. “But Architect, a ball? Couldn’t I just duel all of the...suitors and pick one?”

Brighid simply laughed, still focused on her task. “...How about a navy one, hm? The color does suit you.”

“Brighid, I am _not_ wearing a dress,” Mòrag protested. “I may be subjecting myself to this...domestic venture, but I will not be ogled at.”

“Lady Mòrag, in the sixteen years I’ve known you, I’ve let you embarrass yourself at hundreds of social events by flouting the dress code. Indulge me just this once...And besides, Niall sent these up personally.”

Mòrag exhaled heavily. “Fine. But only because he sent them.”

Her Blade grinned. “Good. Then I won’t have to burn every pair of pants you own. Now, try this one on.”

Mòrag scowled at the threat to her wardrobe but did as she was told. Clearly, Brighid intended to enjoy dressing her up like a doll for the gala. But when it came to discussing the prospective marriage aloud, Brighid withheld her opinion. Normally, the Blade readily gave her thoughts about, well, everything.

“Brighid, what do you think about all this? Honestly.”

“...I will support you and stand by your side whatever decision you make.”

There it was: Brighid’s historic line for, _This is a terrible idea but I have no choice but to go along with it._

“You disapprove, then.”

Brighid stopped sorting through the pile of gowns. “As admirable as your intentions are, Lady Mòrag, I fear that, given your past, this arranged marriage can only end in disaster. Or at the very least, you’ll be miserable. As your Blade, I cannot approve of that.”

“That...that was a long time ago, Brighid. And I have to do this.”

Mòrag had considered it a thousand times already. The office of Emperor had already stolen so much of Niall’s innocence. Surviving the assassination attempt at Indol, watching refugees and his own citizenry starve, fighting off a power-hungry Senate, shouldering the affairs of an entire country at such a tender age...he endured so much. And yet he never complained. He, unlike so many warmongering rulers before him, truly deserved to be happy. He deserved the chance to have an awkward adolescent crush on a girl his age and fall head over heels for her. Emperors rarely got that opportunity. So if Mòrag could give him that chance by marrying, then she felt certain she could live with the consequences.

“I respect and admire your sense of duty, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid added, her tone somber. “But my greatest fear is that the man you marry will find out the truth. But will he respect your privacy? I fear he won’t.”

“...Then I’ll have to choose carefully,” Mòrag said. She fastened the zipper on the dress and showed it to Brighid, who beamed like a schoolgirl.

“That’s the one,” Brighid decided. “It’s perfect.”

“It shows a touch more skin than I’m comfortable with.”

“Nonsense. It’s classic and tasteful. And ninety percent of the other gowns Niall sent show much more than this.”

On that point, she could not argue; Ardainian high fashion and modesty often seemed to be mutually exclusive terms. It was a bit ironic, really, to see women parading around in revealing gowns when Mor Ardain’s court valued propriety so highly. It was one of the many inconsistencies Mòrag hated about court life. And Brighid was right; this dress was tame. Aside from the plunging back--which swept down to her waist--the dress was perfectly modest.

“There’s just one problem: no sleeves.”

Brighid gave a knowing smile and picked up a pair of long gloves. “I never forget a detail, my dear.”

“I’d be lost without you.”

“Indeed. But we’ll both be lost without some rest,” Brighid observed. "It's late, and we have many matters to attend to tomorrow. Unless you need anything else, I will be retiring for the evening.”

The mere suggestion of rest caused Mòrag to stifle a yawn. “You've done quite enough for one day. Goodnight, Brighid.” 

When her Blade was gone, she quickly changed and collapsed into bed. Sleep came quickly. But thanks to a nightmare, rest eluded her...

_The mob pressed against her. She pushed back, desperately trying to fight her way through. She shouted her title and ordered the crowds to part. No one listened. How did they get in? Commoners, nobles, Senators, mercenaries, even foreigners—they all clogged the palace hallways. And even though their feet carried them away from her, their faces glared in her direction, heads on backwards._

_But each face was the same: indigo eyes, pale skin, strong nose, thin lips. They all sneered at her, chanting._

_“Lies, lies, thousand lies. Lies, lies, thousand lies.” Pain shot through her stomach, as if their words were daggers, their eyes spears. Somehow, they knew the truth._

_The nursery. She had to reach the nursery._

_But she was drowning in bodies. Whenever she tossed aside one face, another took its place. She reached for the sheaths on her hips—empty. Swords would not clear a path for her here. Despair hit her like a boulder, and she wanted to curl up in a ball. Why not let the mob trample her, let them stamp out the lies?_

_No. If the mob was here, then_ he _was here. And he would take Niall._

_The thought sent a wave of panic through her, and she screamed his name. The noise echoed against the palace halls. But her lone voice overpowered the shouts of “Lies,” ricocheting against every accuser. The mob thinned, and she found she could force her way through as long as she kept shouting._

_Left turn. Thirty meters in the northern corridor, then another left. Third door on the right, nursery._

_She arrived too late. The mob was already here. They tossed about pieces of bodies —the palace guards, she realized—like toys. She swallowed down the vomit that rose in her throat. At least they weren’t pieces of Niall. But then, she saw him._

_He, a Driver, stood taller than all the others, and his dark robes bubbled about on the floor as if his very presence melted the earth beneath him. In one hand, he clutched the Emperor by the hair, dragging the boy from his bed. In the other hand he gripped a cruel scythe. A dark hood covered his entire face, but somehow, she knew that under the cloak, she’d see the same face the mob wore. Only the face actually belonged to that man, and on him, it was beautiful._

_He was Death._

_Death held the unconscious Emperor high in the air. The mob erupted once more, throwing their bloody toys and rocks at the young ruler._

_"Down with the impostor!” they screamed._

_The Emperor awoke at their cries, but he did not stir, nor did he flinch in pain or cry out. Only his indigo eyes betrayed his fear._

_At last, Death turned his attention to her, stepping in her direction. With each footfall, the pain in her abdomen grew. His scent hung thick about her, sickly sweet. She closed her eyes. Somehow, being unable to see him made the pain go away, and she could think clearly. Relying on instinct, she lunged for Niall, who still hung limp in Death’s hand. Death simply lifted the boy out of reach as if he were a rag doll._

_“Now, now, little princess,” Death scolded, his voice too familiar, too kind. “You’ll never be a good Driver if you telegraph your movements to your opponent in advance.”_

_“Please, don’t take him from me!” Mòrag begged._

_Death slung his scythe over one shoulder and Niall over the other. “The boy is rightfully mine. I have been cheated out of my quarry for too long.”_

_A cloud of smoke and darkness filled the room. When it dissipated, everything vanished—Niall, Death, the mob. All that remained was the empty nursery...and Niall’s crown._

“Niall!” Mòrag shot up, taking in her surroundings. It was dark, but she recognized it all. Red carpets. Mahogany furniture. A miniature steamwork organ on top of her dresser. A pile of dresses on a chair. The most recent portrait of the royal family. Her twin whipswords glowing blue against her nightstand. Everything right where she left it. 

_Of all the nightmares to have tonight,_ she thought. It always ended the same way, and it never failed to rattle her. Usually after a bad dream, she could take inventory of her surroundings and lie back down and sleep. But whenever Death came, speaking with her old teacher’s voice, sleep never returned. Without bothering to turn on a lamp, Mòrag rose, donned her uniform, and left the room. 

As she walked, the guestlist for the gala kept scrolling through her brain...or at least, the part of the list that contained the single nobles and reputable tradesmen. She knew most of them, the “suitors,” and she’d already gathered intelligence on those she hadn’t met. There was Senator Birall...a little old and affiliated with the Gardic party, but respectable and loyal to the crown. He’d served as one of her uncle’s advisors, too. Jedrek Carthaigh was a military man; Mòrag respected his drive and tactical prowess, but his popularity among the noblemen’s daughters concerned her. Maximus Reagan, on the other hand, had no political ties whatsoever. His volatile temper and over-the-top theatrics, however, made even Zeke seem as reserved as a librarian.

 _But will he respect your privacy?_ Brighid’s question burned in her mind. When she thought through the list in that light, not a single name met the criteria. Her dueling method looked more and more appealing as a selection method. 

She looked up. Her feet brought her on instinct to the training grounds. No surprise there—training relaxed her, cleared her head. Eager to banish the last remnants of her nightmare, she took up a practice sword in her right hand and a blunt dagger in her left. Even after all these years with Brighid’s whipswords, the dagger-longsword fighting style felt comfortable. She took a fighting stance.

 _Now, catch your opponent’s blade with your dagger. Hold it there, and his side will be exposed. Use that opening to stab with your sword._ She could almost hear her father coaching her through each movement as she battled her imaginary opponent. _Step backwards, then press again. When the blow is too heavy to block, roll to evade. No wasted movements._

_You’ll rarely be stronger than your opponents. When that happens, wit and momentum are your best weapons. And patience. A patient fighter angers her enemies. And angry enemies make mistakes._

“It’s been ages since I’ve seen that fighting style.” The small voice broke Mòrag out of her trance-like state.

“Your Majesty,” Mòrag said, breathless from the exertion. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I could say the same to you,” he replied, smiling weakly. “And for the last time, please call me Niall when we’re alone.”

Even in the dim light, Mòrag could see the shadows underneath his eyes. The efforts to temporarily placate the Gardic party were succeeding—largely thanks to Senator Birall, who probably saw the arrangement as his own opportunity to gain control over the throne without the help of his party. But making those concessions demanded long hours at the negotiating table. Undoubtedly, the extra work wore Niall out. 

“A lot on your mind?” Niall said. It wasn’t really a question.

Mòrag nodded. Judging by his expression, he wanted to hear her thoughts. But she did not volunteer them. The agony of picking a suitor, her distaste for balls and gowns, the trapped sensation when she thought of _marriage,_ of all things...she couldn’t burden Niall with that. 

Niall’s lip slipped into a pout at her silence. “It really should have been me, you know. It’s not uncommon for emperors to marry young. I’ve always known that. It’s my duty.”

It was Mòrag’s turn to frown. “And it is my duty to protect the crown,” she said, her tone businesslike. “The Senate’s bill threatens the crown. My producing an heir will shield the crown from that threat and preserve your happiness in the process.”

“How do you know producing my own heir would make me unhappy?” 

“Who would you marry?” Mòrag asked bluntly.

The emperor stared at his shoes. “I...I don’t know. I’ve not considered it, really.”

“Then you’d be unhappy. I cannot stand by and watch that happen, Niall.”

“But what about your own happiness? A year ago I told you to follow your heart. That order still stands.”

She surprised herself by pulling him into a hug. “...I am, Niall. I promise you that.”

Niall nodded as he withdrew from the embrace. “Very well. Will you be training much longer?”

She nodded.

“Could I join you? I’d like to spar, for old time’s sake.”

Before she could object, Niall took up a single training sword and gripped it like a chroma katana. That remained his most comfortable style after years of training with Aegeon. Mòrag matched his style with a single sword of her own and waited for him to make the first move. 

Clearly, Niall had been practicing. Given enough time, he could easily become a peerless Driver himself. But they only had enough time to exchange a few blows before they were interrupted by one of the castle pages. 

"Your Majesty. Special Inquisitor. Apologies for the interruption. I bring urgent news."

"What is it, Collin?" Niall asked.

"Special Inquisitor. I have news from the Tantal outpost. The criminal you apprehended last week, Cor Baragh...he's escaped."

* * *

Zeke could not decide what was the bigger joke: his father’s passive aggressive parenting (and ruling) style, or the invitation Pandoria had just handed to him—which, of course, she’d already peeked at. 

_His Imperial Majesty, the 68th Emperor of Mor Ardain, Niall Hugo Ardanach,_

_Humbly requests the honor your presence at a royal gala_

_Celebrating the 28th birthday of_

_Her Imperial Highness & Special Inquisitor, Lady Mòrag Ladair_

_The Imperial Ballroom_

_Alba Cavanich_

_Amathatober 13th, 4060, 7 p.m._

“Woaaaaah, Mòrag’s only twenty-eight? I coulda sworn she was in her thirties,” Pandy gasped.

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Zeke snickered. 

He looked at the invitation again. The handwriting definitely wasn’t Mòrag’s. Not Niall’s, either. That could only mean that a staff member had painstakingly penned each invitation—in gold leaf, no less. That was opulent, even for Mor Ardain.

“Say, Pandy. Since when does the mighty Flamebringer celebrate her birthday?”

“Hell if I know. They probably do every year and just never invited you because you ruin every party you show up at.”

Zeke shook his head. “Nah, this is downright fishy. Mòrag hates parties. Remember that big bash they threw the day we finally got all the borders settled? Best party of the century, and Mòrag made herself scarce thirty minutes in...Did the messenger say anything when he delivered this?”

Pandoria shook her head, but the lightbulb on her head flickered twice—her tell for when she was hiding something. 

“Pandy. The truth.”

  
“You won’t believe me. But get this: word on the street is that Mòrag is looking for a—wait for it...a husband.” Pandoria giggled. She vividly recalled the hijinks she’d caused by letting Tora believe that Mòrag was a man. In many ways, Pandoria egged the nopon on, confusing him even more. The thought of “Mr. Mòrag” marrying made her burst into laughter.

Zeke laughed briefly, too, before getting lost in thought. “Our Mòrag getting hitched, eh? Now _that_ I have to see,” he said. 

“So we’re going?”

“Hmm…It might be a good excuse to get away from hovering Eulogimonos over there.”

Zeke thought about the conversation he had with the king that morning. Most of it was his typical “You’re a sad excuse for a prince” scolding. Zeke could almost recite the lecture by heart; they had the same conversation nearly every day since coming to Elysium. Only this time, the king said something new amid his empty self-righteousness fluff: he set a deadline. _Tantal needs an heir apparent, Zeke. Gird yourself like a man and choose a wife before the year is out, or I shall pick one for you._ Unfortunately, Eulogimonos had as much taste in women as a dead flamil. The female nobles in court proved that. 

But as Zeke vividly recalled, the noblewomen in Mor Ardain were much prettier. 

“Pack your suitcase, Pandy,” Zeke announced. “We’ve got a ball to crash.” 

* * *

Cor Baragh never expected to be rescued. From the moment the Inquisitor’s blades lashed around his wrists, he resigned himself to execution, hoping that they’d choose a painless method. Not that they thought he deserved it. So when a band of rough-looking men had abducted him from military custody, Cor did not resist—not even when they tossed a burlap sack over his head and dragged him across the countryside. When their journey finally came to an end, Cor felt his guards rip the sack from his head. 

“Hey, watch it!” Cor yelled. The light stung his eyes.

“Can it, you. The Boss can still throw you back to the wolves if you don’t behave,” one of the guards said. “But do as you’re told, and you can call this place home.”

“A right step up from an unmarked grave,” Cor muttered. 

Cor had only stepped foot inside an Ardainian battleship once, but even he could tell that this one had been grounded for a while. It had, for lack of a better term, crashed. But even a crashed ship made for a good hideout. 

Dozens of people milled about the broken hull of the warship, carrying crates of gold, core crystals, handcrafted goods, and weapons. It didn’t take a trained eye to see that a majority of the items were pilfered. And the people carrying them? All hardened criminals. The gleam in their eyes gave it all away. Most were Ardainian, but Urayans, Tantalese, and even a few nopons and Indoline roamed the halls. 

After a long walk through a maze of galleys and halls, the guards stopped at what remained of the ship’s bridge and gave terse half-bows before forcing Cor to his knees. 

“Here he is, Boss. Cor Baragh, just like you asked,” the first guard announced.

Cor took one good look at the “Boss” and decided that his own usual tactics of intimidation would not work against the stranger. The man had an underwhelming stature, but everything else about him screamed mastermind: a strong nose, lips set in a firm line, and keen indigo eyes framed by a pale face and hair. But a shiver ran down Cor’s spine when he looked at the man’s scar: severe burn marks lined his chin, neck, and cheek in the shape of a hand—as if the very fist of hell had tried to strangle him and failed. 

“Thank you, Baldwin. Leave us.” The Boss’s voice did not fit his face. It belonged to a politician. “Cor Baragh. You have quite the...reputation.”

“What do you want?” Cor demanded. “What is this place?”

“Ah, yes. Break the law, and you’ll end up in one of three places: prison, a shallow grave, or here, in my little empire. You could call this a guild of sorts, I suppose. And you’re our newest member. So congratulations are in order. Your days of running from that little Ardainian bitch and her toy soldiers are long gone. You’re a free man.”

“What’s the catch?”

The guild leader laughed. “Smart man. Cutting right to the chase...You see, Cor, people don’t just find their way into this little brotherhood of mine. They’re recruited. I protect my people. I give them a sanctuary, let them be themselves in a world that just doesn’t understand them. But in return, each person I recruit does a little job for me here and there.”

“So, you have a job you want me to do? And if I do it, you’ll let me stay here?” Cor asked.

“Correct. And whenever I don’t require your assistance, you’re free to do as you please. Find yourself new toys to play with at night. Skin people alive. Take up knitting. I don’t really care as long as you pay your dues.”

“And if I refuse?”

“No skin off my back,” the Boss said amiably. “You’re welcome to try and make it on your own if you’d like. Although given your reputation, I doubt you’d stand much of a chance. From what I hear, even Uraya has signed an extradition agreement with Mor Ardain for you or your carcass. The whole world hates you, Baragh.”

Cor thought about the burns on his wrists and how easily the Special Inquisitor captured him. He did not want to relive that ordeal. “What’s the job, then?”

“It’s quite simple, really. I want you to lead the Special Inquisitor on a wild goose chase. Pop up long enough to get her to leave the castle and pursue you, and then disappear again.”

“What the hell? You just told me my days of running from her were over,” Cor protested.

“Yes, but if you’re working for me, you’ll have resources at your disposal. I run a criminal empire, Cor. Men, fortified safe houses, core crystals, money, whatever you need. You’ll be untouchable.” 

Cor crossed his arms and glared at the man. “Why me?”

“I need the emperor’s watchdog distracted. From what I hear, she takes an uncanny interest in...people like you. With your record, she won’t be able to resist pursuing you. That’s all you need to know for now.”

“If you want me to risk my neck, you’re going to have to give me some collateral,” Cor insisted. “What’s this really about?”

“I gave the best years of my life to Mor Ardain. Their best knight, I was. They owed me everything for my service, so I took one little thing I wanted. I deserved it. But how do they thank me? With this!” The leader ran his hand along his burn marks. “They scorched me, and now I intend to repay them in kind. A war of succession is flickering in the Ardainian Empire, and I will fan the flames.”

“How, exactly?”

The man grinned. “Simple. With your help, I’m going to kidnap the Emperor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this chapter ended up being a tad longer than I expected, but I hope you all enjoyed it. Hopefully I can get Chapter 3 posted pretty quickly. Full disclosure: Zeke ends up acting like a dork, and Rex and Co finally make an appearance! It'll be fun. :)


	3. Dances & Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Aegis party should not be left unsupervised; Morag and Brighid are their impulse control and you cannot convince me otherwise. XD
> 
> Anyway, this is the longest chapter to date and the long-awaited first encounter. Enjoy!

Hardhaigh Palace hosted a lot of parties over the years, and they all began the same way: the guests entered to mingle for a while with music, wine, and hors d'oeuvres for entertainment. After an hour, the state dignitaries entered with all the fanfare befitting their stations, and then the dancing would begin.

Unfortunately, this schedule of events left the Aegis party unattended with wine, no idea what to do, and no Mòrag or Brighid to keep them out of mischief. 

Angering nearby nobles with boisterous laughter was the least offensive thing they accomplished. Dromarch was, of course, on his best behavior, but he could not prevent Nia from giving sarcastic nicknames to each noble she saw. “Pratface,” “Lionhair,” and “Lady Froglips” were a few of her tamer ones. And rarely did she say them quietly. 

Rex tried to keep his nose clean, but no one informed him of Mor Ardain’s protocol to greet the woman first when introduced to a couple. Most found it amusing. But the greyer hairs seemed aghast that the Driver of the Aegis remained ignorant of the social norms of the world’s oldest and proudest nation. 

Even Tora had emerged from hiding for the gala to show off his extensive upgrades to Poppi QTpi. She looked very nearly human now. Tora had swapped out her exterior metal plating for a seamless, supple material that seemed, at first glance, to be skin. The mystery compound was, as Tora put it, “Nopon family secret recipe” using ingredients discovered in Elysium. The result was impressive; the material covered most of her screws, wiring, and seams with ease. Only an occasional creak of her gearing or the odd gleam of her alloyed eyes gave her away as an artificial Blade. And of course, her odd speech patterns. 

Tora found it quite amusing to test how long it would take a partygoer to discover that Poppi was, in fact, manufactured. Zeke, Pandoria, and Nia found it equally entertaining and proceeded to tail Tora around from person to person, making bets on how long Poppi’s non-humanity would stay a secret. But when someone started “accidentally” knocking Poppi into a Senator to reveal that she was made of metal, things got interesting. 

Inevitably, whenever they weren’t following Tora, Zeke and Pandoria ran from guest to guest, introducing themselves with too-loud voices, coordinated choreography, and—a new touch—rhythmic pulsing lights courtesy of the Blade’s hat, shoulders, and tail. Not that introductions were necessary; most of the guests already knew them from previous state visits. And Zeke made a deep impression. Worse still, Pandoria had smuggled Turters into the party in her vest pocket. He fell out and scurried away while she was doing a cartwheel. As a result, the Driver and Blade felt it necessary to conduct an unsuccessful yet conspicuous search and rescue attempt. 

Even Mòrag could hear Pandoria shouting for the tiny turtle as she approached the top of the staircase where she would enter the gala with the Emperor. 

She glanced out over the crowd below. Just how many of these people would she have to dance with tonight? Her feet ached at the thought of it.

“Lady Mòrag, you’re scowling again,” Brighid warned. 

“I know, I know. I’ll give myself wrinkles,” Mòrag recited.

“I was going to say that a princess should smile on her birthday. But that’s true, too.”

“I’m not ready for this, Brighid.”

“You’re going to be fine. Just be yourself.”

Her Blade gave her a reassuring smile, but it did not reduce her anxiety. Brighid, unlike her Driver, was entirely in her element here. Mòrag almost wished Brighid was the one seeking the male attention tonight. She would doubtless have admirers; she looked lovely. A blue topaz gown replaced her usual purple one, matching her so perfectly that it was impossible to tell where the dress ended and her body began. And instead of her traditional hairstyle, Brighid now wore her flaming hair in a small braided circlet on top of her head. The overall effect of her hair and clothing was rather striking. It was almost as if Brighid had transformed into one of her own blue flames. 

Of course, Brighid had worked her transformative magic on Mòrag, too...despite the latter’s protests. Mòrag initially refused any makeup or perfume or elaborate hairstyles. Brighid insisted. But as a compromise, she kept her touches light, enhancing Mòrag’s eyes and cheekbones with natural contours. And her simple updo was largely reminiscent of her typical hairstyle, with just a few added curls and a mother-of-pearl hairpin to better fit the occasion. 

“You look  _ beautiful,  _ dear sister.”

Mòrag bowed as the Emperor approached, Aegeon trailing behind him. Niall smiled sweetly at her, a child-like admiration on his face. Maybe dressing up was worth it, if only to see him so happy. 

“Lady Brighid,” Niall began, “thank you for all the help you have provided to make this evening a success. My sister and I are in your debt.”

Brighid bowed low. “You honor me, Your Majesty. It is my pleasure.”

Niall turned back to the stairwell and extended his arm to Mòrag. She took it, noting how much closer he came to her shoulders now. Had he gone through a growth spurt in the last two days? 

Niall nodded to the announcer, who cleared his throat loudly. The entire hall quieted. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct honor to introduce to you this evening His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Niall—long may he reign! And accompanying him, Her Highness and Special Inquisitor, Lady Mòrag Ladair.”

The hall erupted in applause as the two descended the stairwell, which felt twice as long as the day before. This was all wrong. She ought to be flanking Niall, not be escorted by him. And all eyes were supposed to be trained on him and all the splendor of his formal regalia. But she could feel all eyes on her instead. She knew why, of course, which only made her more uncomfortable. 

_ Just a few more minutes,  _ she reminded herself.  _ Just one dance and they’ll go back to their drinks. _

In Mor Ardain, tradition dictated that the emperor and his escort be the first to dance, and once they reached the main floor of the ballroom, the orchestra swelled in bright chords. Although Mòrag appeared calm, internally, she was screaming. Dancing in a crowd she could handle; but performing like this made her want to disappear. Niall, thankfully, was an excellent dancer, and his graceful technique distracted the guests from her hesitancy. He led expertly. His feet moved in perfect sync, and he managed to pull Mòrag along without it looking like she was a half-beat off. 

About halfway through the song, the crowd respectfully applauded, the unspoken signal that others could join in. Dozens of couples flocked to the dance floor. Once everyone was distracted again, Mòrag finally settled into rhythm. The worst of the night was over. 

Or so she thought. 

A man tapped Niall on the shoulder and bowed respectfully. 

“Your Majesty, forgive my impudence, but might I cut in?”

Niall gave a polite smile. “Of course, Senator.”

Any onlooker would have said that Niall had been perfectly cordial, giving a polite smile and deferring to the request as propriety demanded. Mòrag could tell otherwise. She saw the animosity brewing in his eyes, like a chink in his face-saving armor. And she knew why: this was Senator Carrow, the chair of the Brionac party. His signature was first on the bill that necessitated an Ardanach heir to begin with. He was, in short, the greatest threat to the throne. 

“Senator, to what do I owe this  _ pleasure?”  _ She spat the word.

Carrow smiled and began to dance. “You’re a smart woman, Lady Mòrag, so I won’t waste your time with pleasantries. You think you’ve found a workaround with this little gala of yours, but it will be too little, too late. We will have a new Emperor in a matter of months.”

“You intend to continue with your coup, then.”

“It is not a coup if it’s perfectly legal.”

“You may have passed the bill into law,” Mòrag began, “but you will not be able to pass a vote of no confidence against His Majesty. You need Gardic’s agreement to do so, and the Emperor has regained the support of enough Senators to keep your poorly-veiled bid for the throne at bay. And I have it on good authority that one or more Senators will filibuster if you try to bring it to a vote.”

Carrow laughed. “And they’re welcome to filibuster until they’re blue in the face, my lady. Yours are only temporary measures. You cannot hold this off forever. Support is a fickle thing, after all. An emergency or two, and the entire Senate could be turned against your precious Emperor in the blink of an eye.”

“And if I trace those so-called emergencies back to you, you’ll be hung for treason,” Mòrag warned. 

“I don’t need to cause any emergencies myself. You’re doing a perfectly good job of that yourself.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you’re implying, Carrow.”

“Rumor has it that a certain criminal has eluded your grasp time and time again,” Carrow said smugly. “What was his name? Ah yes, Cor Baragh. The men of Mor Ardain fear that their sister, wife, or daughter could be next. And Senators are not exempt from that fear. But they have power to act on it.”

“The Emperor is not to blame for the actions of a criminal.”

“No, but he is to blame if that criminal is allowed to go unchecked. And as Special Inquisitor, you are an extension of his authority. If you fail to catch Baragh, it is as though the Emperor is too inept to catch one rapist. And your track record with this particular man is, to put it kindly, less than stellar. The Senate does not look kindly on such inadequacy.”

“I  _ will  _ apprehend him. Your threat is meaningless.” Mòrag tried to project confidence, but the truth of it was that Cor Baragh’s trail had gone entirely cold as of late. She feared that the next time she found any trace of him would be when she spoke to his newest victim. 

“And I hope you do. But bad things happen, even in Elysium. With the right spin, anything can necessitate a vote of no confidence.”

Mòrag resisted the urge to purposefully step on his toes. “By then the Ardanach household will have an heir.”

Carrow gave another of his nasty smiles. “So you  _ do  _ intend to finally serve your purpose as a woman. Which one of these fools will you be breeding with tonight, then?”

Carrow flinched as she stomped down on his foot. If she had been in uniform, the plating on her boots probably would have broken his toe. 

“I will  _ not  _ be spoken to in such a way, Senator.”

She let go of his hand and stopped dancing even though the music continued. Ardainian etiquette strongly discouraged abandoning a partner in the middle of a dance, but Mòrag could not stand his insolence any longer. Legally, she was well within her rights to have the man detained for disrespecting a superior officer. Senators, as members of the military’s legislative branch, technically fell beneath her rank. But acting against Carrow so harshly would cause a far greater disruption than a simple breach of etiquette.

Much to her relief, she caught sight of Brighid walking towards them. A welcome interruption.

“Excuse me, Senator Carrow, but Lady Mòrag’s presence is requested elsewhere. The Aegis and her Driver wish to see her,” Brighid explained. 

Carrow bowed his head. “Of course. I would not dare deny a request from the Aegis herself. Best of luck capturing your prey, Inquisitor.”

Mòrag decided not to wonder what exactly he meant by “prey”—whether that was Cor or a husband, it was an unpleasant thought. And she was eager to get away from the man.

“Architect bless you for that, Brighid,” Mòrag whispered when they were far enough away from the dance floor.

Brighid’s face remained as tranquil as ever. “I could feel your anger from across the room, so I figured it would be best to come assist.”

Mòrag nodded. Normally, she hated it when Brighid used their ether bond to read her emotions. It felt like she was being spied on, and Brighid did it often. But today, it was a welcome invasion. 

“I  _ would  _ like to see Rex and the others, though. Before another dancer kidnaps me.”

The Aegis party had retreated to a corner of the hall where fewer Ardainians congregated, but their boisterous laughter still drew scowls. Mòrag smiled at the sound. When she first met Rex and the others, she found them childish, naive, and undisciplined. But a few weeks in their company had reminded her how good it felt to laugh. And a dose of Rex’s relentless positivity was just what she needed right now. 

The group sat in a circle on the floor. Somehow, they’d gotten their hands on an empty wine bottle and set it in the center of their group. Nia was about to give the bottle a little spin when they finally noticed Mòrag and Brighid’s approach. 

“Mòrag!” Rex jumped up and smothered her in a fierce hug. Any nearby Ardainian gawked that he had both embraced her and addressed her so informally, but Mòrag didn’t care. He was the same old Rex, charmingly innocent. At least one thing hadn’t changed. 

“Happy birthday, friend Mòrag!” Poppi chirped. Tora twirled in an excited circle beside her. 

Nia looked at Mòrag and whistled loudly. “Wow, Brighid. You are a miracle worker.”

Brighid simply gave a proud smile in response. 

“It’s good to see you. All of you,” Mòrag said. “But...what exactly are you up to?” She gestured to the bottle between them. 

Rex scratched his head and blushed. “Eh, just playing a little game. Spin the bottle.”

Brighid frowned. “That crude kissing game? That explains why I keep hearing complaints about you all.”

Pyra giggled. “That’s how we started. You missed Tora smooching Dromarch.”

“I am  _ not _ participating in the game,” Dromarch insisted. Mòrag was unsure if tigers could blush, but the memory clearly made Dromarch uncomfortable.

“But then we gave the game a little twist,” Nia chimed in. “We come up with a little dare, and the person the bottle lands on has to do it.”

“Oh dear. This cannot end well,” Brighid said. 

“Guys, new dare!” Pandoria shouted. “It’s a good one. Whoever gets it has to dance with Mòrag!”

“Pandoria, no!” Zeke exclaimed. His cheeks reddened a bit when he realized that the entire group looked at him quizzically. “Mòrag, er, has a lot of politicians who wanna dance with her. We can’t get in the way. Besides, a dance with one of us will cause her a heap of embarrassment. You’ve seen Tora’s moves.”

“For once, I agree with Zeke,” Brighid volunteered.

“Methinks he doth protest too much,” Pandoria snickered. She dodged an elbow jab from her Driver.

“It’s a dare. I have to see this.” Nia gave the bottle a little spin. 

The group erupted in shouts and laughter when the bottle’s mouth pointed to Zeke. He rolled his eyes. 

“Go on, Shellhead! Ask her to dance!”

Much to Zeke’s relief, an Ardainian Senator chose that moment to interrupt and request a dance of his own. And, as expected, that became the story of the evening: Mòrag would finish a dance with one noble, and another would take his place. It went on for hours. Watching them cut in one after another was quite entertaining (for everyone but Mòrag). The “eligible bachelors” all attempted to make a good first impression, but most floundered in desperate attempts at small talk. Only Senator Birall managed to avoid making a fool of himself, but by then, Mòrag seemed too tired to enjoy the company. 

Zeke had made himself scarce after the last bottle-spin; Nia and Pandoria nagged him to make good on his dare. And it wasn’t that he minded dancing with Mòrag. He knew he could dance well enough with anyone. But more than anything, he wanted a chance to talk with her. So he’d spent most of the evening watching and waiting for his opening. 

After what seemed like the hundredth dance, a noblewoman stormed up to Mòrag and thrust something in her hand. Zeke couldn’t tell what it was—a glass, perhaps? He gathered that the woman was quite angry about something. But once she finished her rant, she stormed away from the ballroom, dragging Mòrag’s dance partner with her. 

Mòrag shook her head and began to steal away from the hall—probably to get some fresh air and escape the remaining Senators. Zeke followed. She didn’t go far, stopping at an outdoor balcony on the second floor. She sighed and leaned against the marble railing. 

Zeke hesitated. He’d been thinking about what to say all night, but now that he stood a few feet away from her with no one else around, he blanked.

He never intended to stare. Fancy dress aside, he knew what Mòrag looked like. It wasn’t that the sight of her bare back was new, either. When their group got separated in the Land of Morytha, he found Mòrag injured, slashed from behind by a Guldo. The wounds on her back were not life-threatening, but she had needed his help cleaning and bandaging the cuts. But today, far from the necessity of the battlefield, the sight of her skin—surprisingly smooth given her profession—hit him differently. 

“Do you have something to say?” Mòrag’s voice caught him off guard. She must have heard him following her.

“Err, well...um. The mighty Flamebringer in a skirt and heels! I never thought I’d see the day.”

Zeke cursed under his breath. He spent an hour deciding what to say only to panic and blurt out a line he’d already used before. And one that irritated her, no less.

“Your death by fire can still be arranged, Zeke.”

To his surprise, there was no irritation in her voice. It almost sounded like she was amused. Maybe someone else had made a similar remark already? Surely someone had; summer snow storms were easier to spot than Mòrag out of uniform. 

He laughed, hoping she couldn't tell it was forced. “Well, at least I know you’re still the same old Mòrag. We almost didn’t recognize you!”

“I don’t exactly recognize myself,” Mòrag admitted. 

“...You look nice, though,” Zeke said at last, taking a leaning position against the balcony beside her. “And they’ve thrown you quite the party.”

“From what I’ve heard, you and the others have already caused plenty of chaos. Speaking of which, I believe this is yours.” 

She handed him a mostly empty champagne glass. The liquid was long gone, but Turters lay at the very bottom, legs sprawled into the air. Zeke did not know if reptiles could get drunk, but Turters certainly looked it. 

“Turters! Architect, where did you find him?” he asked, discarding the glass and putting Turters in the safety of his coat pocket. 

“I didn’t find him. Just now, I danced with Maximus Reagan. Insufferable man. Right after we finished, his mother, Madame Maxine, stormed up to me with a ‘turtle-infested’ wine glass. She insisted that Turters was the greatest insult their house has received in centuries. They stormed out of the gala over it.” 

“Gosh, Mòrag. I’m sorry. I have no idea how he got away. Or into the wine. Cheeky little scoundrel.”

“Don’t be. It was good riddance. And that house could benefit from a few more insults, if you ask me. They act as though they’re entitled to everything.” Mòrag sighed. “Maximus clearly believes he deserves to join the royal family.”

There it was. A tiny opening. But it was probably all he would get.

“Your brother told me about the whole Ardanach heir thing. Jolly cold of the Senate to force your hand, really...How are you holding up with all of that?”

She gave a long sigh. “Honestly, I’m dreading every minute of it. I...I think I always knew that I’d end up in an arranged marriage. But knowing it and seeing it happen are two very different things. I just...I want my country to see me as more than just a womb. I don’t want to be remembered for producing heirs.”

“You’re Mor Ardain’s Special Inquisitor. You helped the Aegis find Elysium. And we couldn’t have done it without you. You’ll be remembered for that, won’t you?”

“Do you know what every so-called suitor of mine has done tonight? They’ve all asked who will take my place as Special Inquisitor once I’m married,” Mòrag said bitterly. “None of them intend for me to keep my position. But Special Inquisitor...I’m not sure who I am without it. They want me to stop being me.”

“Niall would never force you to quit.”

“No, but the rest of Mor Ardain will.”

“Then why do this?”

Mòrag hesitated. She never intended to speak so openly about her fears with anyone. But during their journey to Elysium, she and Zeke spoke frequently about governance. They often disagreed about the nuances of policy. But unlike many people, he actually challenged her thinking, dared to tell her when she was wrong. He never sucked up to her or talked down to her. Not even Brighid could say as much. Sure, the Blade would give her opinion—even if it ran contrary to Mòrag’s own—but even Brighid deferred to her judgment when the time for action came.

Zeke, she realized, treated her as an equal. 

“...I suppose I hoped that at least one man in Mor Ardain would understand. Just one who wouldn't force me to choose between my duty and my passion,” she admitted. “But it was a fool’s hope.”

“You never know. One might turn up,” Zeke offered. 

“Time is a luxury I do not have. Senator Carrow made that very clear this evening.”

“Your timeline is worse than mine, then. At least my old man gave me six months. If I don’t, he swears he’ll pick my wife for me.”

“Tantal needs an heir too, then?”

“Yup. And as the only child, that honor goes to yours truly.”

“Let me guess: you're going to refuse, and your father will disown you again,” Mòrag predicted. 

Zeke shook his head. “Nah, it’s time I ended my days as a free agent. It was fun and all, but my old man nearly destroyed Tantal with his damn secrets. If I flaunt my inheritance again, he’ll appoint the next king himself. And then he’ll pick someone who thinks just like him, which means Tantal will have another Eulogimenos. But what Tantal needs is a change. I intend to be that change. But I can’t be banished to do it. So I have to go along with his ultimatum...I guess that means we’re both prisoners to our own duty, eh?”

She nodded. “Such is the life of a royal...Do you have someone in mind?”

“My dad sprung it on me. Of course, he made plenty of suggestions. But I don’t fancy them.”

At the start of their conversation, Zeke’s goal was merely to get a better grasp of the situation, to learn how Mòrag was feeling. He hadn’t even intended to share that his own father demanded an heir, but then she shared how much stress the whole scenario caused for her. It would have been unfair not to share his own situation. At least she knew that someone else in the world understood the tension duty caused.

He did not plan, however, on saying more than that. He needed to take some time to think. 

Unfortunately, Zeke had the tendency to ramble when he was nervous. Even more so when he had a drink or two. Ardainian wine packed a stronger punch than Tantal’s, and he felt it now. Between the wine and the nerves, his next sentence burst out before he could stop himself.

“You know, if we both have to get into an arranged marriage, it would almost be easier if we just married each other. Two birds, one stone.”

Mòrag stared at him, her expression unreadable.  _ Damn it, she’s furious with me now,  _ he thought _. _

Zeke forced another laugh. “I-I said that out loud, didn’t I? It was a joke. Just, er, trying to lighten the mood.”

Only her eyebrows betrayed her disbelief. “When you joke, you make wild, dramatic gestures. You stood still when you said that. You weren’t joking...at least not completely.”

“Yeah. But now that I’ve said it, I realize it’s a terrible idea. Just forget it.”

She turned back to look at the stars and fell silent for an uncomfortably long time. “It’s not the  _ worst  _ idea you’ve ever had...We are friends. And a friend would be a marked improvement over the circus downstairs.”

Zeke felt a weight lift off his chest. At least she wasn’t mad. He’d half expected her to slap him for his comment. But she actually thought about it. Even now, he could see the concept swirling in her eyes. That was far more than he hoped for.

“Well, good to know I’m at the top of your list of last resorts,” he laughed. “Although I’m afraid I got ahead of myself. What man proposes marriage without at least asking for a dance first?”

“It was a sad excuse for a proposal, Zeke. And I never said yes,” she said firmly.

“Then let’s start over with a clean slate.” He cleared his throat and bowed, hand extended. “May I have this dance, Mòrag? If memory serves, this is your favorite song. And I still have a dare to make good on.”

She took his hand. “Good memory.” 

* * *

Meanwhile, the Aegis party had grown bored of their game of dares. As a result, they did not fail to notice when Zeke and Morag reappeared together on the dance floor. Those who still had gold remaining from their Poppi-based bets earlier in the evening cast another little wager: how long would Zeke dance with her? 

Most of the party bet that Morag would stop after one musical number. But after the sixth song came and went—and multiple dejected Senators slunk away after the Inquisitor shot them down—it was clear that they’d have to pay up.

“Called it,” Pandoria laughed, pocketing her sizable prize.

“I don’t believe it,” the Aegis said. That bet had completely drained her pockets.

“Is it just me, or is Shellhead acting awfully...I dunno, nervous? He’s more of a spanner than usual.”

“His heart rate reading is full standard deviation above normal levels,” Poppi observed. Her gaze was fixed on the pair of dancing royals. Compared to other couples on the floor, they were unusually close. And Zeke’s hand lingered on the bare skin exposed by Mòrag’s dress—slightly lower than her waist. “Is...is this what humans call getting handsy?”

Nia snorted so hard that a mist of champagne shot from her nose. She doubled over, half from discomfort and half from laughter.

“Tora, you might want to update Poppi’s social awareness protocols,” Pyra observed. “But...she’s not wrong.”

“D’you think Zeke...likes her?” Rex asked.

“Now Mòrag look like woman. It hard not to,” Tora said. 

“Look, I know Shellhead’s dense, but even he can see that Mòrag is  _ way  _ out of his league,” Nia replied. “Although he is suspiciously nervous.”

“I think they could be good together,” Rex said. 

“They’re total opposites.”

“But opposites attract sometimes, right?” Rex continued. “And think about it. Mòrag’s focused and serious and dedicated. Zeke thinks outside the box and knows how to bring some fun and laughter to even the most dangerous mission. They balance each other out. And they both are super devoted to helping their countries.”

“Rex, are you seriously trying to play matchmaker between Zeke and Mòrag right now?” Pyra teased. 

“Well, no. There’s no way in Alrest I’d try to set it up.” Rex blushed. “But I mean, we all know Mor Ardain is trying to trap Mòrag in an arranged marriage. Wouldn’t it be better if she could marry someone she already knows pretty well? Like, if she has to.”

A bolt of ether flashed as Mythra replaced Pyra. “We’re all forgetting one very important detail. Zeke is clearly nervous. But what about Mòrag? That’s the  _ real  _ question here. Poppi, can you tell?”

The artificial Blade returned her attention to the dancers. “Inconclusive,” she announced. “Mòrag heart rate fluctuating beyond normal range, but Poppi see no statistically significant data to confirm or deny hypothesis.”

“So you can’t tell, then.”

“Data inconclusive.”

“We should go find Kora,” Mythra suggested. “She could like, go bump into Mòrag or Zeke. Make them accidentally kiss or something. Then we’d know for sure.”

“Mythra meddlesome,” Poppi observed. 

“No, Mythra.” Rex’s tone was unusually firm. “I’m still in debt from the last time you and Kora stayed up late for girl talk in Tantal. The last thing I need is you two acting on your gossip.”

“I don’t really think Mòrag  _ wants  _ to get married, anyway. I think she’d be content serving the Emperor until she died,” Nia added.

“Lady Mòrag is convinced that her marriage will do a service for His Majesty. That’s how she views it, anyway,” a voice behind them announced.

“Brighid! How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that you all require adult supervision,” the fire Blade replied. “And before you even ask, no, I don’t know how Mòrag feels about Zeke. If she harbors any romantic feelings for anyone, she has not told me. And you should be warned that I will personally whip anyone who meddles in her affairs.”

“Touchy much? Sheesh.”

“You all have caused enough trouble for one evening. But I did not come here to babysit. Could I borrow Pyra?”

There was a pause as the Aegis struggled to change back into the redheaded Blade. Like Rex had mentioned in his letters, the explosion at the World Tree had upset the ether flow that allowed her to transform. Her ability to switch at will was returning, but the response time was slow. “What do you need, Brighid?”

“His Majesty has arranged for a special fireworks display to close the celebration. One of the palace Blades was supposed to assist me in lighting them, but he is thoroughly intoxicated. I hoped the Aegis might take his place.”

Pyra’s eyes brightened. “Of course. It sounds like fun.”

“Oi, where did Zeke and Mòrag go?”

Meanwhile, after several more dances, Mòrag and Zeke had returned to the balcony without anyone noticing. Jedrek Carthaigh had tried to cut in multiple times, and avoiding him was one thing they both silently agreed on. Mòrag also wanted to get Zeke off the dance floor before too many of Mor Ardain’s nobles saw how closely he held her. The entire court would surely be talking about it tomorrow.

“I had no idea you danced so well,” she said, trying to fill the silence between them. When neither of them spoke, she found her mind jumping back to the feeling of his hand against her back, how he held her as they danced. She wanted to be angry about his behavior. She would have walked away in the middle of the dance if Senator Birall or anyone else acted that way. And it honestly would have been easier if she did feel angry. Anger she could deal with. 

This feeling, though...was she subconsciously trying to convince herself that knowing Zeke made this easier? Men had flirted with her before, even proposed to her; she always held them at arm’s length. And she had never even thought about Zeke in such a way, either. But now that she could not hold the issue of marriage—and its accompanying emotions—at bay, she did not know how to feel about it. 

No. This feeling was the stress of the evening, nothing more. Nor did it matter how she felt. Her duty mattered most. And Zeke’s actions did not conflict with that duty. 

“Yeah, I’m a good dancer,” Zeke grinned. “I’m a jolly good kisser, too.”

Mòrag rolled her eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Ozychlyrus.” 

“Please, don’t call me  _ that. _ ”

“Think of it as payback for your dress and heels remark earlier. And for Turters.” Mòrag smiled.

“Hey, that one’s not my fault. Pandoria was supposed to be watching him.”

The sky erupted in showers of blue fiery stars, cutting off whatever Zeke intended to say next. All the confidence he had while dancing seemed to vanish. He just stood beside her, visibly uncomfortable. 

_ That makes two of us,  _ Mòrag thought.

As the world’s major military power, Mor Ardain boasted centuries’ worth of experience mastering explosives. The world’s best fireworks came as a fringe benefit. Brilliant greens, vibrant reds, warm yellows, shocking whites, and royal purples all danced in the heavens in the most elaborate shapes. And thanks to Brighid’s keen timing on the ground, each firework exploded at the precise moment in its precise position. The result was a moving tapestry of light depicting a fierce warrior surrounded by flame in the heat of battle. The Flamebringer in the sky cut down all who opposed her in a dizzying display of light and sound. 

At last, the sky and the air went still. 

Zeke whistled. “Impressive. You, ah...you look good in fireworks. Very fierce.”

“I was just thinking it was a bit much.”

“Ever the modest one, eh?” Zeke hesitated. “So, er. Mòrag. About what I said earlier…”

“I will discuss the matter with His Majesty tomorrow,” Mòrag said, understanding the question he failed to verbalize. “I suggest you do the same with your father.”

“Then you’re actually going to consider it?” Zeke’s voice was higher than usual.

“I will explore if it is even a viable option for my country,” Mòrag said, trying to keep her voice as passive as possible. “A political marriage is no small endeavor, and Tantal has little to offer Mor Ardain...besides an heir, of course. And after years of isolation, Tantal might not be fond of such a binding alliance with Mor Ardain. But there may be advantages as well. We must explore those possibilities. If our sovereigns approve, then...then, yes. I would  _ consider _ it.”

Zeke nodded and his shoulders relaxed. “I guess I better head home and have a chat with my old man, then.  _ That’s  _ going to be quite the conversation...Well, goodnight, Mòrag. And happy birthday.” 

Zeke took her hand, kissed it, and left. 

It was a cordial gesture, but for a brief moment, Mòrag almost wished she hadn’t worn gloves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor little royals, having to marry first and sort out feelings later. It's unfair and gloriously awkward, especially when one has a crush and the other doesn't. Bless them. 
> 
> In other news, I have more time to write now, so hopefully I can get the next chapter up sooner than this one! I had been training for an Ironman triathlon (yes, I'm one of those people), but it got canceled (screw you, COVID). Between that training and writing for work, I didn't have as much time as I would have liked to write this. But now I have more spare time on my hands. So stay tuned!


	4. Rumors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are inching ever closer to the part I've been waiting for since I started this fic. I'm STOKED.
> 
> Anyway, writing this story is becoming one of the best parts of the week for me. Thank you to everyone who's left kudos, comments, subscribed, etc. It's been incredibly motivating. Thanks for helping me get my mojo back!
> 
> I'll stop being sappy now. Without further ado, I present Chapter 4: Rumors.

Mòrag normally woke at sunrise without an alarm. And in the sixteen years she had known Brighid, her Blade had only intruded on her sleeping hours a few times—and then only for emergencies. 

So when Brighid woke her by slapping her repeatedly with a folded-up newspaper, Mòrag jerked herself alert instantly. 

“I’m up, Brighid. I’m up!”

“Lady Mòrag, just how much champagne did you have last night?” Brighid demanded.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Please tell me you were drunk last night.”

“I wasn’t. Why on earth would you want me drunk?”

“Because at least alcohol would be an easy way to explain your ghastly behavior.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Mòrag said, raising her hands defensively.

“I am shocked that you let Zeke behave in such a way, Lady Mòrag. You know Mor Ardain’s etiquette better than anyone. It is a gross breach of conduct for a man to touch any woman so...informally in public, even if she is his wife. And yet you did not stop him. Some might even say you encouraged him.”

Mòrag stifled a laugh. Of course that was what had the Blade so worked up. Brighid was even more of a stickler for protocol and tradition than she was. 

“Brighid, you’re overreacting. This is not the scandal you’re making it out to be.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

The Blade thrust her newspaper into her Driver’s hand and slapped the cover page.

A copy of  _ Core Crystal Weekly  _ unfolded before her to reveal an overwhelming spread of words, pictures, and captions. Since reaching Elysium, news photography had come a long way. An enterprising nopon—perhaps a cousin of Tora’s—had discovered a binding agent that allowed multicolored dyes and paper to adhere to ether energy itself. Mòrag did not quite understand the technology, but apparently the discovery allowed for quick, detailed images without bulky equipment. An added benefit was newfound ease when distributing photos en masse.

The proof shone up at her in the headline photo: a brilliant, full-color image of Zeke and her dancing. The photographer had timed the photo perfectly, too. The copied Zeke held his partner in a perfect dip, and both were smiling. If not for the dress in the photo—she was the first person to wear that design—Mòrag would not have recognized the woman as herself. She did not recall grinning so childishly. 

More intriguing, however, was the headline and text that surrounded the image. 

**_Mor Ardain’s First Lady Prefers Exotic Men?_ **

_ An All-Access Look at the Royal Gala, from the Special Inquisitor’s Lover to the Boy Emperor’s Secret Crush, Heartbreaks, High Fashion, & Everything Inbetween _

_ Oh, to be held in love’s sweet embrace, to dance the night away in the arms of a Tantalese prince-turned-pirate. And for Lady Mòrag Ladair, that dream became a reality at last evening’s exclusive royal gala.  _

_ For our handsome bachelors, the night was nothing short of a competition for the lovely Inquisitor’s affections. Lady Mòrag danced with every heartthrob our nation has to offer, including Core Crystal Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor, Jedrek Carthaigh. But each hope was dashed the moment Lady Mòrag danced with His Royal Highness, Prince Ozychlyrus Brounev Tantal, more affectionately known as Zeke. The exotic prince won the most attention and the most dances _ — _ not two, not three, but  _ **_six_ ** _ dances.  _

_ The dear prince and princess were already friends before the festivities _ — _ they’re on a juicy first-name basis, in fact _ — _ thanks to their quest to find Elysium.  _

_ But don’t miss the biggest scoop of all: now it seems they’re friends with benefits.  _

_ We can’t blame the prince, though. Lady Mòrag was an alluring vision of royalty in a Peatopaz Reserve exclusive navy gown (that’s right ladies and gents, she wore a dress _ — _ see page 7 for a full look of the evening’s fashion, including the Jewel’s fiery look that is sure to be the newest trend).  _

_ Body language tells all, and Prince Zeke definitely enjoyed the bit of skin our first lady showed off. “He had his hands all over her,” one partygoer says. “The magic was definitely there.” _

_ “Usually, the Inquisitor is all about personal space and propriety. But clearly the prince gets an exception.” _

_ An exception, indeed _ — _ Lady Mòrag and her gallant escort were last seen leaving the ballroom together. Neither returned to the party. But was it just a one-night stand? Or is a royal wedding on the horizon? We promise to be the first to know! _

_ Meanwhile, His Majesty the Emperor… _

Mòrag stopped reading and laughed. “This is what you’re worried about? Brighid, everyone knows that  _ Core Crystal Weekly _ is yellow journalism, purple prose at best. It’s idle gossip, nothing more. Ninety percent of what Elodie writes is a lie...Wait. You don’t honestly believe what she wrote, do you?”

Brighid shook her head, visibly disgusted by the thought. “No. But it doesn’t matter what I think. You allowed Zeke to act like a fool, and now we potentially have an  _ international  _ scandal on our hands!”

“Brighid, nothing happened. We talked a bit, watched the fireworks, and then he left. I retired to my quarters alone. It was completely innocent. You’re overreacting.”

“Am I? Lady Mòrag, any suitors you might have had won’t be returning to the palace if they believe you’ve already made your choice. You might as well marry him, because the local busybodies have probably already named your children.”

Mòrag decided that now was not the time to tell Brighid about Zeke’s marriage suggestion. She might as well throw salt in a wound. 

“They are baseless rumors, Brighid. It’s nothing a formal statement can’t solve.”

“By my core, I hope you’re right. I will make arrangements with our public liaison.” Brighid sighed. “Public scandal aside, though...the Emperor has arranged for you to have breakfast with our friends. They’re expecting you downstairs.”

“Excellent. I’ll head there right away...Please join us if you can.” 

“Once I’ve managed to salvage your reputation, I’ll be right down.”

Mòrag folded over the newspaper and stashed it in the drawer beside her bed. The paper would provide her plenty of entertainment later. She never took much stock in  _ Core Crystal Weekly;  _ it was well-known as Alba Cavanich’s gossip column. And ultimately, gossip proved impractical. But whenever a copy found its way to her, she always found it amusing—Elodie’s work in particular. She and Elodie were classmates long ago, and since then, Mòrag had admired the woman’s ability to make even the most mundane stories interesting, true or not. And she could use a good laugh right now, even if it was at her own expense.

She quickly pulled on her uniform, relieved to feel the familiar navy pants, blouse, and jacket. At first, she considered adding her armor, whipswords, and hat, but she decided against it. A quick tug on her gloves, and she was out the door, eager to get out of range of the livid Brighid. 

Mòrag knew that most of her friends—with the exception of Nia—held their alcohol well, so she was not surprised that they were already engaged in boisterous conversation that she could hear halfway down the hall. Like her, they had all reverted back to their normal selves: Rex in his salvager suit, Nia’s bright yellow jumpsuit, Tora’s grease-stained overalls. Zeke and Pandoria were absent; Mòrag wondered if he’d already departed for Tantal. 

“Mòrag! Join us for the eating!” Tora exclaimed, his mouth overflowing with half-chewed food. Before him was a giant bowl of tasty sausages. Whenever he visited, he demanded as many of them as the kitchens could manage, citing “ongoing compensation from Inquisitor” as his reason. If the nopon stayed too long, Mor Ardain would likely have a meat shortage on their hands.

She grabbed a bowl of glitterbake and a cup of black roast coffee, eager to get something in her stomach. The gala had not afforded her much time to eat. She took the empty spot next to Rex. 

“That was some party, Mòrag. You should have a birthday celebration like that every year,” Pyra volunteered. The Blade looked pleased that the Inquisitor had picked her dish from everything else on the table. 

“It might take me a year to recover from the mere stress of it,” she admitted.

“It would give us an excuse to visit every year. I wouldn’t mind that,” the redhead added. 

“Speaking of which, how long will you all be staying in Mor Ardain?” Mòrag asked.

“I dunno,” Rex volunteered. “I mean, it’s a pretty long journey to get here. So to make it worth our while, I may hang around for a bit. See the new sights...not that your birthday isn’t worth a journey, I mean!”

“I think I may just stay at Hardhaigh Palace for a couple weeks,” Nia said between bites of snowbaby potato salad.

“Why?”

“So that way I don’t have to come straight back for the wedding. Obviously.”

“What wedding?” Mòrag raised an eyebrow, hoping to feign ignorance. Maybe, just maybe, her friends had not seen the papers yet.

“Yours and Zeke’s. Oooh, it’s gonna be great!” Kora giggled, electricity crackling around her head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mòrag insisted. “I haven’t made a commitment to anyone yet. It’s a huge decision.”

“Oh save it, Mòrag. Us girls stayed up all night talking after the party,” Kora said excitedly. “Pandoria told us  _ everything. _ ”

“Like how Shellhead proposed  _ on accident,”  _ Nia laughed. “What a dork.”

“And anyway,” Pyra began, “Your dances last night? Dead giveaway.”

“So, Mòrag. Spill. You like, like Zeke, right?” Kora demanded.

Mòrag wished she could just disappear. The general public believing a newspaper was one thing. Little “scandals” about the royal family happened all the time; the public quickly lost interest. But her friends...they had the truth from Pandoria. No “formal statement” would make them believe otherwise. She owed them an explanation, at least. But an explanation was hard to give when she’d had no opportunity to sift through her own feelings—that would require solitude. And she needed to talk to Niall, too. Like it or not, she could not verbally confirm or deny the proposal until she had the Emperor’s approval. Not even to her friends.

She did her best to adopt a business-like tone. “I don’t  _ like  _ anyone. Not in the way you’re describing, Kora. And that’s not the point. If it even happened, this would be an arranged, political marriage. Zeke knows that as well as I.”

“But you’ve got to feel something one way or the other! Like, does the thought of kissing Zeke make you go weak in the knees? Or does it make you want to barf?”

“Kora!” Rex chided. “That’s a really personal question.”

“The people want to know,” Kora said eagerly, punctuating each syllable.

“My marriage aside,” Mòrag said, eager to change the subject, “are you genuinely considering staying here for a while?”

Rex and Nia both nodded eagerly. Tora still had his face buried in his sausages.

“Auntie Corrine is all settled now. I can be away for a while in good conscience.”

“And I’m still drifting. Some time in Mor Ardain could be nice.”

“Then can I ask you all to help me again?”

“Of course,” came the chorused reply.

Senator Carrow’s thinly-veiled threats echoed in her memory as she told the group about Cor, from his initial arrest to his criminal history and his subsequent arrest. Then came all the dead-end leads that she had chased relentlessly in the days leading up to the gala. It was almost as though Cor stayed in one spot long enough to be spotted and then vanished. Even with Brighid’s Keen Eye and Mòrag’s own stubborn tenacity, they failed to find a workable trail. Perhaps, with a few extra hands, she might be able to apprehend Cor once and for all.

“A quest sounds fun!” Rex exclaimed. “I mean, I’m mad that this bastard keeps giving you the slip. But it’ll be nice to go on an adventure together again, you know?”

“Calm down, rusthead,” Nia smirked. “How soon do we leave, Mòrag?”

“In a few days, I hope. I have a few duties that I must attend to here in the capitol first.”

“Got it.” Rex nodded. “I can send for Azami. She’d probably be a big help on a mission like this.”

“She gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Kora whined. “Do not pair me up with her.”

They spent nearly an hour discussing the expedition, and it almost felt like they were back on their quest to reach Elysium all over again. Back then, the stakes had been much higher, to be sure, but Mòrag almost wished they were trying to stop Malos instead. At least Malos’ actions had been clear and predictable. Cor’s plans were a mystery. 

Their strategizing was interrupted halfway through when a courtier tapped Mòrag on the shoulder to summon her to the Emperor’s presence. Mòrag was grateful that Niall took the initiative for the meeting; she might have spent half the afternoon working up the courage to go see him. Now she did not have a choice. 

When she entered the chamber, Niall gestured to his courtiers and Aegeon, who exited with quiet, quick bows. Once they were alone, Niall relaxed his shoulders and sat down informally on the couch. The sight made Mòrag smile. Niall’s advisors had vocally protested having any comfortable furniture in the council chamber; they contended it communicated weakness. Niall insisted. It was one of the first times he vocally resisted their counsel. She enjoyed seeing him begin to assert his authority—not of his office, but of his own individuality. 

He nodded to the cushion beside him. “I trust you enjoyed some time with your guests this morning.”

“I did. I was quite surprised that you invited them. But I am grateful for it.”

“I thought their presence might bring a bright spot to an otherwise difficult evening. Speaking of which, I welcome your report.”

“I am most concerned by what Senator Carrow—”

“I already know about the Senator, Mòrag. And he will be properly reprimanded for his behavior. I would like to know about the conversations I am not yet privy to.”

“There is...one possibility that I believe we should explore. Tantal is also seeking an heir. Prince Ozychlyrus has broached the topic of a political marriage between our two nations. It is my opinion that we would be remiss not to explore the topic with your council, pending your approval, of course.”

“Of course I will approve it...but only if you want me to.”

Mòrag looked at him, unable to hide her shock. A marriage between two nations had dozens of repercussions: border disputes, military concessions, trade agreements, negotiations for which country the couple would live in, which throne any resulting descendants would have claim to and in which order...the list was endless. Niall’s office demanded that he consider every last one of those factors. He could not, should not agree so quickly. 

“Your Majesty, as Emperor, you must disregard my feelings and consider everything that is at stake here. This decision affects two entire countries.”

“Damn my office, Mòrag,” Niall retorted. “I was your brother long before I was Emperor. And as your brother, I must consider your happiness. You deserve it.”

_ No, you don’t. You deserve to be stuck with a toad for the rest of your life. _

There it was again—that nagging voice that she tried so hard to bury. It had been silent for years, present only during her nightmares. But since the moment Zeke mentioned the possibility of marriage, the taunts carried over into her waking hours. She stifled a shiver.

“Mòrag. Please, tell me honestly. Do you want me to give my blessing?”

“...Yes. Given the circumstances, it is the best option available to me.”

Niall broke into a grin. “Good.”

“Wha…?”

“If the prince had not already done so, I myself was going to suggest it, what with your friendship and all,” he explained. “And how could I not? Last night, he was the only man who managed to make you laugh. If I must sign off on any marriage, then I would much prefer it be with someone who already knows how to make you smile...I will present it to the council later today.”

Mòrag managed a small smile of her own. “I wish Brighid had been as receptive.”

“She’ll come around. Now, I fear I must return to my work. There have been unsettling reports about a crime guild forming beneath Mor Ardain. We will, of course, be enlisting your assistance on the matter once we have more information. But for now, please enjoy some time with your guests. You are to take the rest of the day off. No exceptions, sister.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Mòrag did as she was told. Technically speaking, she had enjoyed a day off immediately before—and she loathed long leaves of absence—but nothing about the party was restful. An afternoon off was wise. It also granted her an opportunity to spar with Rex, who’d begged for a face-off at breakfast. They fought for a bit, and then Tora joined in. Nia was quick to follow, creating a chaotic four-way melee. 

The untrained observer would have called it a standoff. But as the most experienced fighter of the group and the only one who had been fighting constantly since finding Elysium, Mòrag had the advantage. However, disarming the other three was not as easy as it had been. Tora’s upgrades to Poppi enhanced his versatility. Nia had fully embraced the advantages of her Flesh Eater form. And Rex, well, a year had done wonders for his childish impulsiveness. Now he fought with a calculated style and the strength that naturally accompanied a six-inch growth spurt. In a year of peace, all three made impressive improvements.

Little did Mòrag know how vital those improvements would be in the coming days. 

Four days later, they found themselves wandering the no-man’s land between Uraya and Mor Ardain. Given the murky history between the two nations, both had agreed to establish a buffer between them. Not that Temperantia had helped much during Alrest, but since there was no more Torna to sabotage them, it was worth another try. 

Unfortunately, Cor’s trail led here...and dead-ended here. Mòrag warned the group to stay on high alert. Their treaty with Uraya allowed them to be here for official investigations. But to be spotted by an Urayan patrol with the Aegis’s Driver and a Flesh Eater in tow could flare diplomatic tensions. The less attention they got, the better.

Mòrag hoped that with Focus, Keen Eye, Fortitude, and Clairvoyant Eye at her disposal, she would catch Cor before he could slither off again. 

“There’s got to be something to go on,” Rex said, the usual optimism missing from his voice. “Azami, please. I swear I’ll go on a date with you if you can manage to get us some clues.”

Mythra gave the dark Blade (and her own Driver) a withering glare, but Azami still perked up at the thought. “Anything for my cutiepie Driver!” 

Azami passed into her trance-like state for an uncomfortably long time.

“How does he keep doing this?” Mòrag could feel her nails digging into her palms despite her gloves. “These tracks...they can’t be but an hour or two old. We should have him!”

“It’s like he’s just disappeared. Or flown away.”

“Like in an airship?” Azami asked. Now that she was alert again, she looked visibly pleased.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t get much on this Cor creep,” Azami confessed. “It’s almost like the ether is intentionally blocking me from seeing him. But I did get one good view of him getting picked up here by an airship. Not more than a few hours ago.”

“An airship? But that could only mean…” Nia’s voice trailed off.

“He has help,” Brighid finished the sentence for her. “It’s beginning to look like there was more to those crime guild rumors than we thought.”

“What Azami mean when she say that ether intentionally block the seeing?” Poppi asked.

“Do you remember those walls of darkness we encountered in the Spirit Crucible Elpys? It’s a bit like that. When I try to use my eye to track Cor, all I see is a dark wall, as if someone is trying to block my view. But don’t you worry, my darling Driver. He can’t hide forever.”

“It can’t be,” Brighid murmured.

“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mythra pointed out.

The fire Blade shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

The ability to block remote reconnaissance with ether...that sounded all too familiar to Mòrag. The talent was exceptionally rare; she only knew of one Blade that had it. Perhaps Brighid recognized it, too. 

“Could it be another Blade, Azami?” Mòrag asked.

The clairvoyant Blade nodded, looking very much like a porcelain doll in the growing darkness. 

“But Cor’s not a Driver,” Rex said.

“Not that we know of,” Mòrag agreed. “But with Indol no longer rationing out Core Crystals and registering Drivers, there’s no way for us to maintain a comprehensive list of who is and who isn’t a Driver. He could be one now.”

“Wait. So don’t tell me that creep of a Praetor was actually good for something?” Nia sighed.

“But a Blade couldn’t block Azami, surely. She’s incredible.” Rex ignored the warning glance the Aegis sent his way.

“Certainly not a common one. But...I do know of at least one Blade with such a power.” Mòrag looked down at her toes. “One of my old instructors had a Blade who could block all remote ether attacks, reconnaissance included.”

“You don’t mean your old teacher is helping this guy, right?”

“That’s impossible. He’s dead. I thought that his Core Crystal had been returned to the palace vaults. But it’s possible that the core was stolen or lost in our transfer to Elysium. That would be quite a loss,” Mòrag explained. 

“Either way, we’ve got to find him,” Nia said. “But we won’t make much progress in the dark. Should we make camp?”

The group nodded and set to work. While Azami dropped into another clairvoyant trance, everyone else remembered their tasks perfectly. Mythra allowed Pyra to take over to cook. Rex cleared away brush and started a fire. Nia found fish while Dromarch gathered herbs. Mòrag gathered water, and Brighid ensured that the surrounding area was safe. And as “punishment” for not helping prepare the dinner and camp, Tora and Poppi took the first watch while the rest of the group rested. 

Perhaps Tora was still groggy from gorging on Tasty Sausages. Or maybe after a year of peace he’d forgotten how to stay alert past midnight. 

Whatever the cause, Tora and Poppi fell asleep.

The noise of the airship did not wake them until it was directly overhead, rope ladders unfurled. For one sick, slow second, it was raining men and Blades. And then the chaos began.

Mòrag found herself flung from a sleeping nightmare into a waking one. Everything was dark, almost too dark. The air echoed with grunts, gasps, shouts, clashes of metal. She could not find her friends; the only friendly presence she felt was that of Brighid, her Blade’s back hot against hers. At least low visibility did not prevent resonance. They stuck to small stabs with the swords. It was too dangerous to use the whips now—not knowing where her friends were, she risked losing them. 

“Dark Rondo!” 

Azami, in her element and wreaking havoc. That was one bit of good news. But everywhere else, all she could find was more enemies. They weren’t Urayans; she knew that much. None of these men wore uniforms. But they moved in sync, as if they’d been informally trained on how to fight as a unit. Many were Drivers, but all of them seemed oddly comfortable in the dark, as if slithering in the shadows was normal to them. 

“Pyra, switch!” Rex shouted—not too far away, by the sound of it. “Light! We need light! Give us light!”

There was a sickening boom, like the sound of something collapsing in on itself. Then the forest erupted in flames. 

Darkness was no longer the issue. 

The Aegis, still Pyra, gripped her head with her hands. Flames licked at her fingertips. “Rex! I can’t switch! My ether backfires. If I keep trying, I’ll burn us all to death!” 

“So much for hiding our presence from Uraya,” Brighid said.

“Not the primary issue right now.” Mòrag unleashed her whips. At least she could safely wield them now. “Nia! Wherever you are, we could use some water right now!”

“I’m a bit busy at the moment!” 

A quick glance showed the Gormotti practically juggling weapons as she lurched back and forth between her own sword and Dromarch’s twin rings, fighting off three opponents at once. Everywhere Mòrag looked, it was the same: far too many enemies and not enough friends. They’d been ambushed, overrun, and separated. And the fire was growing hotter by the second. 

“Brighid, we’ve got to free up Nia. We’ll be burned alive.”

Nia and Dromarch seemed to understand the plan, too. The tiger leapt, swept up his Driver in his jaws, and leapt again, bounding away from danger to meet Mòrag and Brighid in the middle. Four against three proved much better odds, and once the immediate enemies had fallen, Nia was free to battle the flames. 

It took three giant spheres of water to get the flames down to manageable cinders. She thoroughly doused the rest of the surrounding area, too. Wet kindling allowed Brighid and Pyra a little more freedom with their flames. 

“Well done, Nia!” Tora exclaimed, bouncing to their side. Poppi rocketed along beside him.

“I’m not a human fire extinguisher, you know,” she said. But she grinned at the praise. “Oi, Rex! Get your arse over here!”

Once they finally managed to regroup, the tides of the battle changed. Now they were focused, falling into their old rhythm. Mòrag and Tora held the defensive front, and Nia and Rex danced in and out with quick attacks. Nia adapted well to a non-healing role, but had Zeke and Pandoria been present, not one attacker would have been left standing. 

When it was clear that the ambush had failed, a voice echoed from the loudspeaker of the airship above. 

“Retreat, you useless fools!”

“That voice,” Mòrag and Brighid said in unison. “It’s him.”

Cor’s men dashed, retreating to their ship. Mòrag sprinted to follow them. If she could just get on that ship, she could overpower him, force it to land. This mess could be over. She cut her way through the fleeing men. It was working. Just a few yards more, and she could grab the ladder and ascend. 

“Mòrag, look out!”

Bullets hailed down from the ship. Mòrag felt Brighid’s shield burst into existence over her head, but she also felt bodies fall beside her. 

“Ah-ah, my dear Inquisitor. Don’t be fooled into thinking that I won’t cut down a few of my own men to get to you,” Cor taunted. 

“Get down here and fight me yourself, you coward!”

“Someday soon. But not yet. My work here is done for now. By the way, my Boss said to tell you that he sends his regards.”

“Who is he?” Mòrag demanded.

Cor simply laughed as the airship ascended out of reach, its black hull melting into the night sky. Before long the roar of its engine faded into nothing. Only the dull crackle of fading embers remained. 

“He got away. Again.” 

“Damn it!” Rex punched a nearby tree. “Ow.”

The group was silent for a moment as they gathered their scattered weapons and undamaged belongings, trying to process what had just happened.

“Poppi have many questions,” the artificial Blade broke the silence at last. “How Cor get airship? Where is it his men coming from? And how they know we be here?”

“I don’t know,” Brighid said. “But that ambush was carefully calculated. They knew we’d be coming. Which can only mean…”

Mòrag clenched her fists behind her back. “We have a spy in Mor Ardain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Note to self: don't agree to house-sit on the same week that you're moving. It steals writing time. 
> 
> If anyone is wondering about which Rare Blades I choose to include in the fic (besides the story Blades, that is), well, Kora was the very first one I got when I played the game first time. Chalk that one up to nostalgia, I guess. And Azami was second or third. So here we are.
> 
> Hopefully I can have Chapter 5 up by the one-month anniversary of this fic. Hard to believe it's been that long already. Time flies when you're having fun!


	5. The Same Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow marks the one-month anniversary of this fic. Woah. So I'm celebrating with the fastest chapter update yet, plus the second-longest chapter yet!
> 
> There's a lot going on in this section. Crime-fighting, politics, feelings, regrets...a little bit of everything. 
> 
> Fair warning: the tone of the gets a little dark towards the end of the chapter. Nothing too depressing, but if you're looking for a super happy-go-lucky read, you'll have to wait for later sections.

A lot of thoughts rushed into Mòrag’s head at once. Who could be leaking information about their movements, and to a criminal, no less? Senator Carrow seemed the most likely option; the timing of his taunts at the gala was uncanny. But no, that was too simple, wasn’t it? The spy could be anyone: another Brionac Senator, a political advisor, even a servant. Their journey to apprehend Cor had not been publicized, but anyone who had been inside the palace recently would know. 

“Mòrag, what do you want us to do?”

She shook her head, hoping to clear it. They were too vulnerable here to waste time hypothesizing about the culprit’s identity. And with many of their supplies burnt, they had little hope of pursuing Cor any further on this expedition. Had she been alone with Brighid, she might have pressed on despite the danger. But she couldn’t ask her friends to do something so rash.

“Let’s return to the outpost. We’ll figure out what to do from there.”

“No more sleeping?” Tora asked sheepishly.

“Masterpon must skip sleeping as punishment for falling asleep on guard duty,” Poppi said.

“Poppi! That not Tora’s fault! And Poppi ought to have been talking to keep Tora awake. Poppi to blame, too.”

“No one was hurt,” Dromarch interrupted. “So there’s no need to pass blame. We’re all tired and in need of food. Our remaining stores will only last a day or two. We must get back to the outpost before they run out.”

“He’s right. There’s not much else we can do.”

During most of the trek back to the military outpost, no one spoke. Mòrag was grateful for the silence; her mind kept replaying the details of their excursion over and over. What had she missed? Something just didn’t feel right about it. The spy was one thing, but there was something else. Something familiar. And instinct told her that it was critical information that she ought to have recognized. 

Her old teacher’s Blade...could it really be Ciaran? If that were true, the Blade wouldn’t be the same individual she had known years ago. He would have returned to his core when his Driver died. But even a new Ciaran could prove problematic, especially as an enemy. His ability to block remote ether attacks would force hand-to-hand combat—assuming they even managed to track him down. But who was his new Driver? Cor? The man behind the growing crime underworld? Neither option boded well.

“Lady Mòrag, I’m sorry we weren’t able to apprehend him.”

“We were so close. Curse that man.”

Chasing Cor to the unoccupied zone had taken them little more than a day. Mòrag had not realized what a reckless pace she drove the party at until they made the return journey. Battle-worn and dejected as they were, the undergrowth seemed thicker, the trail harder to spot. What took them an hour before now took three. Tempers worsened, especially once the food stores were depleted; the little they could hunt and gather did little to sate their appetites. Even Kora ran out of things to say. 

On the fourth morning, the outpost finally came into view. As the primary military encampment along the neutral zone’s border, it was a large one. Several decades of men milled about, training as a unit or patrolling their assigned zones. An airship rumbled above the landing dock, loaded with foodstuffs and ammunition. Urayan tensions aside, the entire outpost was on alert for criminal activity. 

Every soldier snapped to attention as Mòrag passed.

“He got away again? Damn.” One whispered. 

Brighid glared at the speaker. Any further murmurs fell quiet.

Mòrag led her friends to the command center, where she found Padraig—newly restored to his captaincy—hard at work assigning men to a new patrol route. She was glad for him; Padraig was a fine soldier (excluding his ineptitude for colors). The nonsense with Dughall had been an unlucky break; his return to his previous post was a testament to his hard work and unwavering loyalty. 

“Special Inquisitor!” Padraig saluted. “How may I be of service, ma’am?”

“There is much to discuss, Captain. But breakfast would be a welcome start.”

“Of course. I’ll have it arranged immediately. But before I do so, I was asked to give you this. A capitol messenger delivered it yesterday.”

Padraig handed over a sealed envelope with the imperial seal. Inside were two notes. The larger one, which enclosed the smaller one, was in Niall’s handwriting, an immaculate gothic script. The letter was brief:

_Dear sister,_

_I pray that this letter finds you well and that the Architect blessed you with a successful mission. While I am loath to recall you so quickly from your post, I require your presence in the capitol as soon as possible, as demonstrated in the enclosed note. By the time this notice reaches you, I suspect that our guests will have already arrived at Hardhaigh Palace. As such, please return at your earliest possible convenience._

_I look forward to hearing your report upon your arrival._

_With love,_

_Niall_

The second note had been scrawled haphazardly on a scrap of paper without even a salutation. 

_Dad liked the marriage idea. Coming to Mor Ardain soon with a Tantal delegation to “negotiate terms.” See you soon._ — _Zeke_

Mòrag sighed. Everything moved far too quickly for her liking. After the gala, she thought she had at least two weeks to sort through her own feelings about a political marriage to Zeke. And she expected Zeke to mosey his way back to Tantal in no rush. But he practically sprinted home. And then there was Eulogimenos; given his isolationism, anyone would have predicted that Tantal’s king would take weeks to even consider his son’s marriage to a foreigner. But perhaps his desire to save his people from poverty was a far more powerful motivator than she expected. After all, Tantal stood to gain a lot from an alliance with Mor Ardain.

On one hand, she hated how decisive everyone had been—she could not summon that same assertiveness in herself. Not for this. But on the other hand, Senator Carrow and other Brionac party members hungered for more power. The sooner the crown could make an official announcement, the better. And to help their cause, the paperwork for a political alliance would inevitably stall the Senate’s less savory actions. 

“Captain Padraig, never mind the breakfast after all. Please have my private vessel prepared to sail as soon as possible. I must return to the capitol.”

“As you wish. She’ll be ready within the hour.”

Padraig excused himself, and Mòrag briefly explained the letter to her companions.

“So the marriage thing’s a go?” Kora asked. Her eyes gleamed like a child on her birthday.

“...If negotiations go well, then it seems so.”

“Oi, Nia! Pay up!” Rex beamed.

The Gormotti bared her little fangs playfully before handing over a small stack of gold coins. 

Brighid shook her head. “Betting again?”

Rex blushed a little. “Yeah. Nia didn’t think Zeke’s dad would agree to it. But thanks to this, I’ve finally made up what I lost to Pandoria.”

“And Tora still flat broke.”

Mòrag was informed about most of her friends’ antics at the gala, but the ongoing betting was one thing she remained blissfully unaware of until that moment. The thought of it embarrassed her. Knowing they were making wagers was almost worse than Kora’s teasing.

“Even after a year, you lot are still just a bunch of children, aren’t you?”

“Pretty much.”

“On a more serious note, however, I do appreciate your help this past week. You’re welcome to come back to Mor Ardain, or I can make arrangements for you to return home.”

“Actually, Mòrag, we had another—” Nia began. 

“We want to keep looking for this Cor bastard,” Rex interrupted. “I know this case has been giving you a lot of trouble. We were thinking that maybe a bunch of fresh eyes might help, you know?”

“Rex, I cannot ask you to do that,” Mòrag said. “It’s clear to me now that we have something of a crime syndicate growing underneath our noses. Even I have no idea how extensive it is. And Cor is somehow involved with it. He certainly seems to have found himself some very dangerous allies. You could be walking into a Feris den for all I know. And this is an Imperial matter. I can’t ask you to risk your lives for this.”

“And who says we’re asking permission to go? We’re your friends, not your subjects.” Nia crossed her arms, her ears twitching in determination.

“That’s right. We’re going to do this whether you ask us to or not,” Rex insisted. 

Mòrag recognized the expression in the young salvager’s eyes. He wore that look the day the third Aegis sword broke at the Crucible, when they faced off against Amalthus, when he begged to help track down Bana’s factory. No one could dissuade him now. 

“I won’t be able to come rescue you like I did back at Bana’s factory,” she warned. “You must promise me you won’t be reckless.”

“Of course! ‘The cautious diver gets the most crates.’ That’s rule nine of the salvager’s code.”

“You just made that up. And it doesn’t even make any sense, you idiot.” Nia smirked.

“...All right, Rex. You can go. But if you’re lucky enough to find Cor, bring him in alive. I want to sentence him myself.”

Rex grinned. “You bet. Can’t promise we won’t punch him up a fair bit, though.”

At that moment, Captain Padraig returned and bowed tersely. “Special Inquisitor, your ship will be ready in twenty minutes on dock nine. Also, the kitchens prepared quoteletta this morning. I took the liberty of having some brought aboard for you.” 

“Thank you, Captain. There’s been a slight change of plans. The Driver of the Aegis and his companions will be staying here a while longer to continue this assignment. You are to afford him the same respect you would give me. Whatever he needs is to be given him, including soldiers and airships. I trust his judgment.”

“Yes, ma’am.

The remainder of the day rocketed along at a breakneck pace. Mòrag sat aboard the airship in silence, poking at the quoteletta with a fork. It was excellent fare, but even with her hunger, it did not appeal to her today. Brighid penned furiously in her journal rather than talking. Thus they passed the entire journey, and before Mòrag had gnawed her way through a single serving, she found herself freshening up in her quarters. 

For a moment, she was tempted to curl up and hide here. The Tantalese delegation had arrived—according to the shipyard manager, the negotiations began two days earlier. She needed to attend. But that meant confronting everything she’d hoped to put off a while longer. 

“Would you like me to come along?” Brighid asked. 

“Please.”

To Mòrag’s relief, the summit was quite small despite the stations of the dignitaries present. With King Eulogimenos were two of his most trusted advisors, Fortis and Evart, and of course, Zeke. Aegeon faded into the background behind Niall. Representing the Senate was Senator Birall, and Lord Killian represented the royal counselors. Judging by the papers strewn across the table and the men’s expressions, the morning’s negotiations had already gone on for several hours.

Mòrag took her customary seat on Niall’s right, across from Eulogimenos and next to Zeke. Someone had broken protocol to seat Zeke anywhere but beside his father. And judging by Niall’s expression, it was he who had done it. At least the Emperor could afford such indulgences. 

“Please forgive my tardiness, gentlemen.”

Zeke leaned over. “I didn’t think ‘fashionably late’ was your style,” he whispered.

“Duty calls.”

Senator Birall shot the prince a warning glance before continuing his speech. “As I was saying, Your Majesty, the Senate has no objections to the principle of the marriage itself. An alliance between our countries will be quite advantageous. However, I have concerns about how succession will fall.”

“King Eulogimenos and I have already discussed it at length. Provisions have been set for all contingencies in accordance with the law. Any children from this union would have a legitimate claim to both the throne of Tantal and Mor Ardain. In Elysium, the logistics of such mutual sovereignty should not prove problematic.”

“Your brother is a shrewd negotiator, you know,” Zeke whispered. “He probably could have gotten the old man to sign over all of Tantal if he wanted to.”

Mòrag smiled proudly. It wasn’t the first time someone had underestimated Niall’s skill on account of his age. The young Emperor never took advantage of others, but he certainly knew how to leverage the power of the world’s oldest nation to suit his goals. 

“You misunderstand me, Your Majesty. I am speaking of succession within Mor Ardain. For the immediate future, your sister is your sole heir. And going forward, her children will naturally be heirs to the throne. But as I understand it, sire, you hope to wed one day yourself. Then you will have heirs of your own. As the current Emperor’s direct descendants, your children would have primary claim to the throne. But Lady Mòrag’s children will have legitimate claim to both thrones. It is my fear that heirs with claims to two thrones may view their claim as more legitimate than your children’s. Our law has no provisions for such a circumstance. We could have a war of succession thirty years from now.”

Niall smiled politely. It was no secret that Senator Birall had hoped to be considered for this political marriage himself—and if not for Zeke, he might have been the first choice. The Emperor expected the Senator might voice extraneous complaints regarding a Mor Ardain-Tantal union. 

“I find your concerns a bit far-fetched, Senator, but I do have an answer for them. Legally, my sister’s heirs will have more claim to the throne than I myself do.”

There were a few confused gasps around the table. 

“Observe, gentlemen.”

Niall presented one of the last things Mòrag expected to see: her adoption papers. Her uncle, childless, had needed signed approval from countless government officials to adopt her as his heir. She read it once a long time ago; the document was more of a formality than anything. But the full impact of the terms had not struck her until the document was read aloud: 

_I, the undersigned, by the authority afforded to me as Emperor of Mor Ardain, hereby adopt my niece Lady Mòrag Ladair, daughter of my late brother, Lord Eandraig Ladair, and appoint her as my heir. Henceforth, she shall be granted all rights and privileges afforded to a full-blood member of the Ardanach line, including, but not limited to, the office of Empress and a claim to resonate with Brighid, the Jewel of Mor Ardain if she so chooses and the Architect has seen fit to grant her the potential to do so._

_In the unlikely event that the Architect chooses to grace my house with a full-blooded Ardanach male heir, the empire’s governance shall pass to him in accordance with Ardainian statute thirty-seven. However, as she is in effect by law with the passing of this agreement, my firstborn in all but blood, she shall retain all other rights and privileges granted to the Ardanach’s eldest child unless she herself chooses to forego them._

“...So there you have it. Mòrag is, from a legal standpoint, the eldest of our house. Surely you can understand what that means, Senator Birall,” Niall grinned, triumph flashing in his eyes. “In fact, your signature is on this bill, so you cannot contest it. Given the late emperor’s wording, ‘all other rights and privileges granted to the eldest child,’ the Ardanach bloodline passes through Mòrag, not me. As such, any children she has with Zeke would, in effect, have more claim to the throne than myself.”

Zeke whistled loudly. “Sending the bloodline through an adopted child? That’s quite the unique setup. What made the Emperor do that?”

“I have often wondered that myself. But I cannot know my father’s mind. He made his share of controversial decisions; this was his wish. Senator Birall, does the Senate have any _sustainable_ objections?”

Birall did a poor job masking his resigned frustration. “No, Your Majesty. Once the remaining logistical matters have been addressed, the Senate will have no choice but to approve the arrangement.”

“Emperor Niall, much yet remains to be discussed, but it seems we have the framework of an agreement,” Eulogimenos began. “I believe the time has come to make a formal announcement.”

“Already?” Mòrag blurted.

She immediately regretted the outburst. She had not gotten enough sleep lately, and now she was reacting emotionally. As royalty, she was expected to save face at all times. Her frustration at being left out of all the negotiations did not matter. Legally, she and Zeke did not have to be consulted in the proceedings at all; Eulogimenos and Niall did them a courtesy by allowing them to attend. If the kings wanted to make a formal announcement, then the news was as good as out.

Normally, she loved the breakneck pace of her work. But just this once, she wished everything would slow down. 

“I will brief you on the details later, Inquisitor,” Niall promised. “But now the dinner hour is upon us.”

“And tonight we have much to celebrate,” Eulogimenos agreed. He smiled—or at least, on the stoic king, it looked like a smile—and stood in unison with the Emperor. The rest of the table followed as the kings exited the room. 

Zeke tugged on her wrist. “You okay?”

She stopped and turned to face him. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long day. A long week, really.”

“Mission not go well?”

“It brought more questions than answers, unfortunately.”

“I’m sorry. That’s a real bummer. It must be a really important case if you had to rush off for it like that. I mean, when we got here, I didn’t expect you to be gone already.”

“And I did not expect you to return so quickly.” She forced her tone to remain steady and polite. Why the small talk? 

“So...I guess this means we’re getting married.”

“It seems so,” Mòrag said simply. But the word “married” struck her like a punch in the stomach.

“You know, most people kiss when they get engaged.” 

She rolled her eyes. Of course _that_ was what he was after. Always the flirt. “We don’t have to force what isn’t there, Zeke.”

“Says the woman who wants to have a child as soon as possible.”

“That’s different. I have to. They’ll steal Niall’s throne if I don’t.”

“I’m not sure it’s so different. And you might like it, you know.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

He shook his head, smirking. 

“...Fine. But just one. They’re waiting on us.”

Zeke pressed his lips against hers, quick, eager. Her brain hardly had time to process the sensation before he withdrew. The last time she’d been kissed, well...she hadn’t enjoyed it. But this time, even with his brief, innocent touch, a foreign, dull warmth tickled in her chest. She exhaled sharply, not realizing she had been holding her breath. 

He looked at her with a wide, unblinking eye. “Told you you’d enjoy it.”

“That’s not—I mean—”

Zeke moved to kiss her again, but Mòrag shrunk back.

“I-I have to go,” she stammered. “Work.”

She exited the room abruptly, trying to force her wildly beating heart to calm down. In truth, part of her _had_ wanted to kiss him again. But that was what scared her. 

This made no sense. She knew she regarded Zeke as a friend. A political marriage did not change that. But barely a week and a half had passed since the arrangement had even been mentioned. And while Niall had given her some input in some of the process, the actual decision had not fallen to her. Why, then, had a tiny peck on her lips made her shaky? Surely that couldn’t be right. She was performing her duty to the Emperor. This was just another mission to protect him. She wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. 

_You don’t_ deserve _to enjoy it. Zeke’s a good, honest guy. But you’re just a hypocrite. If he knew what you’d done, he wouldn’t kiss you. Wouldn’t like you. Wouldn’t marry you, not even for political gain. He deserves better than you._

Her spine tingled as bad memories threatened to surface. She tried to push them—and the nagging, bitter voice that came with—to the back of her mind. It wouldn’t do to think about that now. No. Now she had to focus on duty. No feelings, just actions. Actions were safe and, more importantly, controllable. 

Ignoring the rumbling of her stomach, she returned to her quarters and set to work on the paperwork that piled up in her absence. Performance reviews. Transfer requests. Supply routes to approve. Applications for the vacant captaincy. Everything neat and orderly. Read through, decide, sign, fold, seal. 

The mundane nature of the task soothed her, washing away some of the panicked sensation she’d experienced. Her focus was so deep that she didn’t even notice when Brighid entered. The Blade began to seal the envelopes for her, silently falling into the rhythm of the task as if she’d been doing it all along. Only when Mòrag reached the bottom of the pile did she look up.

“I thought you might need to talk,” Brighid offered.

“Hmm,” Mòrag tossed aside her hat and rested her chin on her desk.

“I can guess what this is about. Zeke kissed you for the first time, and you didn’t know how to react. So you ran away...But why?”

“I-I almost liked it, Brighid.”

“And is that such a bad thing? You’ll be doing much more than that once you’re married.”

“I _can’t_ have feelings for him.”

“Is it that you don’t want to? Or you’re scared to?”

“Of course I’m scared. You know better than anyone why.”

“Zeke isn't like that. He would not have agreed to this political marriage if he were.”

“…I'm being downright pathetic, aren't I? Just a damn coward.”

“You're not a coward, Lady Mòrag. It's perfectly legitimate to be frightened by change, especially this one. But please, don't push away what could be for fear of what was.”

“...I thought you hated the idea of me marrying him.”

“Lady Mòrag, if I may...I have served you for more than half of your lifetime. I would like to think you trust my judgment. At first, I hated this idea. And I still hold no fondness for Zeke myself. I find him crass, and I do not appreciate his sense of humor. But...against his moral character I have nothing to say. If it puts your mind at ease, know that I am confident that he would conduct himself honorably as your husband.” Brighid paused. “That said, I believe you should tell him the truth.” 

“I can’t.”

“I fear you’ll be miserable if you don’t. And he’s not ignorant, Mòrag. He’ll probably piece together part of the story on his own.”

“He might. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Hopefully we never have to.”

Brighid opened her mouth to argue, but a soft knock cut her off. She moved to answer the door.

“Is, er, is Mòrag in? She didn’t come to dinner, and I thought she could use this.”

Even from her desk across the room, Mòrag recognized his voice. “Send him in, Brighid.”

Zeke entered, a plate of food from the palace kitchens steaming in his hands. He set it in front of her. “Thought you might be hungry.”

She nodded. “And is that all?”

“...No. Brighid, can we have a minute?”

The Fire Blade scowled at a direct request from the prince, but she excused herself. 

“Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry, all right? I...I pressured you for a kiss when you clearly weren’t ready to. I shouldn’t have done that. It was out of line,” Zeke murmured. 

She never expected an apology from him. Zeke did what he believed was right, never caring what others thought about him—not even his own father. Apologies were not his style. When the rare “I’m sorry” did cross his lips, he truly meant it. 

“I suppose I owe you an apology, too,” Mòrag admitted. “I’m sending you, well, mixed signals. The whole purpose of this agreement is to produce an heir for our countries. It’s unfair of me to ask you to do... _that_ and then deny you such a simple gesture.” She hoped that the dim firelight would mask the blush that crept into her cheeks at the thought.

“I still shouldn’t have forced it on you. It was immature.”

“As was my reaction.” Mòrag confessed. Now that she thought about it, running away was the most childish thing she could have done. 

Zeke smiled. “For a minute there I was worried that you thought I was bad at it.”

“Not exactly...It probably comes as no surprise to you that I'm not very good at personal relationships, not even with my brother. I've never been any good with feelings. So I don't...I don't know how to react to all this. I’m overwhelmed. And to make things worse, it’s happening so fast.”

She shook her head. Again, she'd said more than she intended. What was it about him that made her drop her guard so easily?

“I get it. This is jolly tough. I’ve had some downtime to wrap my head around it. But you haven’t. So take the time you need to process it, okay? I won’t pester you about it,” Zeke promised.

“I appreciate that...And thank you for bringing the food. It was thoughtful.”

For a moment, Mòrag forgot that they were in the privacy of her apartments. Nowhere else would she be sitting so informally, gloves and jacket off with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She stretched. Her spine popped as she leaned from side to side, arms extended overhead. Zeke’s smile shifted into a frown as he watched her; his eyes settled just above her head. 

Damn. Why hadn’t she left her sleeves down? She cut the stretch short and crossed her arms, hoping Zeke hadn’t noticed the marred skin on her forearms. 

But to her dismay, he lunged. 

Zeke often lulled his opponents into a false sense of security with his “snazzy” combat theatrics, letting it seem like his massive blade slowed him down. But when he wanted to be quick, he proved why he earned his “Thunderbolt” moniker. So even though Mòrag tried to dodge, he easily caught hold of her wrist and got a better look at the marks. 

“So _that’s_ why you’re always wearing gloves."

She tried to summon the cold, noncommittal expression she wore in court but failed. Of all things for him to see. It was one thing to admit out loud that she was overwhelmed. But for him to see this? Before, he respected her. Now he would pity her. She hated pity more than anything. It made her feel weak.

Mòrag ripped her arm from his grip and pulled her sleeves back down over her wrists. “Get out. Leave."

"But I—"

She stormed to the door and yanked it open. “Go.”

He didn’t budge. Now it was her turn to grab his wrist and force him out, slamming the door behind him. 

“I have them too, you know,” Zeke called out, his voice muffled by the doors.

“What?”

“See for yourself.” 

A tense silence passed, but she did not hear him walk away. At last, she opened the door just wide enough to peek her head out. Zeke was unbuckling one of his leather bracers. Come to think of it, she’d never seen him without them on. Even at the gala, he wore them. And once the bracer was completely off, she could see why. Harsh, whitish scars lined his wrist like pale, jagged ropes. Mòrag’s expression softened. All the anger she felt at his discovering her own marks vanished. Zeke—the over-the-top jovial friend who always had a stupid joke or inappropriate comment—he had these scars, too.

He did not pity her. He sympathized.

“I took it really hard when my mother died,” Zeke said quietly. “My old man wasn’t exactly a great grief counselor. I thought...it felt like part of me died with her. For a long time, pain was the only thing that reminded me I was still alive. So yeah, I cut myself. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth.”

“...How old were you?” Mòrag asked at last, not sure what else to say.

“Fourteen...You?” 

“Thirteen.” He looked at her expectantly. “...I don’t like to talk about it.” 

“No one does. It’s a really dark place to be. But sharing can be therapeutic, yeah?”

“That’s as may be. But I _can’t_ tell you, Zeke. Please respect that.” 

“You got it.” Zeke stuffed his bracer in his pocket. “Just...if you ever feel the need to get the story off your chest, well, you know where to find me. My ear’s yours if you need it.”

Mòrag reached out to squeeze his hand gratefully, but her fingers settled on his wrist instead. The skin felt rough and thick underneath her fingertips. Through the scars she could feel his heartbeat, steady—and most importantly—surviving.

“Thanks,” was the only reply she could muster.

He gave her wrist the same reassuring squeeze. “...I guess I should turn in. We’ve got some crazy busy days ahead of us. Goodnight, Mòrag.”

Zeke released her arm and ambled back to his apartments, wishing he could go back in time and say something a little more comforting. Yes, they both had similar scars. But something told him hers were worse. He was no medical expert, but he knew that his fingers had brushed over two types of scars: several cuts of varying depths, and over one of them, a shallow burn, as if someone had cauterized the wound.

After a year of traveling with her across Alrest, he thought he understood what made Mòrag tick: mostly Niall, followed by Brighid, her country, her work, and her relentless sense of duty. But what had made her the person she was today—that much he was clueless about, apparently. He wanted to understand.

Kissing her had been great, of course, but suddenly it seemed shallow and empty. Now his wrist tingled where her fingers had been. That simple squeeze communicated more than the kiss or anything she said: _Thank you for showing me I’m not the only one._

Outside of battle, Zeke never wore his leather bracers again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After writing this chapter, I realized I should update the tags to this to better reflect my content. So that's done. 
> 
> In all seriousness, folks, it's okay to not be okay. We all experience dark times. Even strong personalities like Morag and Zeke. We'll come back to this theme later on in the fic, but I just want to remind you all that you--yes, YOU--are a beautiful person on your good days and bad ones. You are loved. You are needed. You have a purpose. There is a you-shaped hole in the universe. Keep filling it. 
> 
> Much love to you all!


	6. The Aramach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend to go this long without updating this chapter. But between two weddings in one weekend, a bad case of writer's block, and a family vacation, it was unavoidable. Better late than never, though. By and large, we have a much happier, fluffier chapter this time around. Enjoy!

Even without eavesdropping, Brighid could have guessed what transpired during Mòrag and Zeke’s conversation. The door-slamming gave an excellent hint, and Brighid could feel a complicated mess of Mòrag’s emotions surging through their ether bond. Neither occurrence was normal. Only a few things ever rattled Mòrag so deeply: a threat to Niall and a confrontation about her past. 

She ought to have given them privacy. But once she’d moved to an adjoining room at Zeke’s request, Brighid shamelessly listened at the doorway. She was, for lack of a better term, rather possessive of Mòrag. She detested not knowing what happened to her Driver. And the thought of having to share her, even for political necessity, disturbed her. After sixteen years of practically raising the girl, serving as her retainer, protecting her, Brighid felt she had the right to eavesdrop. 

_ “So that’s why you’re always wearing gloves.”  _ Zeke’s words echoed in Brighid’s mind. She hated those scars more than Mòrag did. To her, they served as a grim reminder of her biggest failure—she’d failed to shield Mòrag from not only her own self-destructive tendencies but also from the tragic circumstances that drove her to that brink. Brighid’s journal entries told her one thing: in all her lifetimes, she relentlessly defended each and every Driver. To protect was her sole reason for being. Never before had she failed so drastically. Those days had shaken her to her core, caused her to question her own existence. 

And every day, Brighid strove to atone for Mòrag’s scars.

Outside of battle, that atonement meant that Brighid spent most of her waking hours assisting the Special Inquisitor—sending missives, managing the daily agenda, and when necessary, tackling solo missions. Her goal was to keep Mòrag’s life as simple as possible. So when her Driver rose the next morning looking as if she had not gotten a wink of sleep, Brighid decided to take over the role of Special Inquisitor for the morning. Mòrag scoffed at the suggestion.

“I’ve had too much time away as it is,” Mòrag protested. “There’s too much to be done.”

“Whatever needs to be done, I will address,” Brighid promised. “And if I may be so blunt, you don’t look up to the task. You look like you need a nap, or at the very least, a strong cup of coffee.”

“Fine,” Mòrag relented. “I’ll come in two hours late. But no more than that.”

Satisfied with that partial concession, Brighid made her way to Mòrag’s office. Compared to Niall’s royal council chamber, the office was rather plain. The previous Special Inquisitor—a man without noble blood who’d earned his way into the title—had chosen the furnishings, and Mòrag elected not to change them. There was an executive desk of black walnut along with a few matching pieces: chairs, a few bookshelves, and an armoire with spare uniforms stashed inside. These darkwoods stood in sharp relief against a crimson tapestry of the Ardainian coat of arms. That was the room’s only adornment, and Mòrag preferred the all-business appearance her predecessor left behind. 

Brighid propped open the door, opened the curtains, and set to work. She only got a few pages deep into a stack of paperwork before the ethercom buzzed loudly.

_ “Incoming transmission: Outpost 39,”  _ flashed across the circular screen. With the press of a button, the text transformed into an image: Rex, a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction clear on his face. Tora and Poppi crowded the edges of the image, sometimes shoving Rex out of frame. The young Aegis Driver seemed surprised to see Brighid on the opposite end of the ethercom. 

“Hey, Brighid! Is Mòrag there?” Rex shouted over the noises behind him. 

“She is otherwise engaged at present. What is it?”

“Oi, Tora! Shut your hole for a minute! Rex is trying to talk!” Nia shouted from somewhere out of sight.

“I really think Mòrag should be around to hear this,” Rex added once his surroundings had quieted some. “Could you get her?”

“Mòrag is not to be disturbed right now,” Brighid lied. Although it was true, in part; she herself gave the order not to bother Mòrag. “I will pass your message along, assuming this is not a simple social call.”

“Nah, I’ve got news.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“It’s a good-news bad-news kinda situation, really,” he began. “We haven’t gotten any leads on Cor himself, but we did get some info on who he’s working for. Azami tracked one of Cor’s men and brought him back to the outpost. Apparently, he was trying to sneak his way back to his base after Cor left him behind. Sly git. She questioned him and got him to talk a little. How she managed that, I have no idea. I almost feel bad for him, ya know? She can be real creepy when she wants something.”

“Rex, you’re rambling. Cut to the chase,” Mythra’s voice scolded.

Rex scratched the back of his head. “Sorry. Anyway, this guy says that he’s part of this crime guild thing here in Mor Ardain. Cor is, too. They’re calling themselves the Aramach, and by the sound of it, there’s a lot of them. Their leader sounds pretty tough, too. He’s got a powerful Dark Blade named Cioran or something.”

“Ciaran?” Brighid asked.

“Yeah, that’s the name.”

_ Damn, not him.  _ Brighid felt the color drain from her face. Back in the woods, she had been hoping that the mysterious Blade’s talent was just a coincidence. Ciaran was the one Blade she hoped she would never need to face again. Even another fight against Aion sounded easier. But there wasn’t time to dwell on that. She needed a plan—and fast.

“Rex, this Aramach member you’ve apprehended: where is he now?”

“In a cell here at the outpost. I think they’re gonna transfer him to the capitol soon.”

“Keep him there,” she said quickly. “W-we cannot risk the Aramach trying to rescue him mid-transport. He has too much valuable information. I’ll come to the outpost and question him myself...What is your next move?”

“Since he was trying to sneak back to his base on foot, we’re hoping it’s not too far away. We’re gonna track him to see if we can get a location for these Aramach. It’ll be tough, though. Can’t rely on Azami’s eye with this Ciaran fellow.” 

Brighid nodded, distracted. Her mind was too busy formulating her own plan of action to truly listen to his. “Very well. Please be careful, though.”

“You and Mòrag worry too much. We’ll be fine. If we find this base, we’ll turn around without going in and report back. Promise.”

“Good...And Rex? If you do have any future updates about this case, please direct the information to me, and not Lady Mòrag.” Another excuse came to mind. “She is rather busy with the coming wedding.”

“So?”

Convenient as it was, the details of the lie quickly clicked into place as if they were true. “Do you have any idea how stressful it is to plan a wedding, Rex? Mòrag will be inundated with countless decisions over the next few weeks. If I can reduce her workload by handling this case, then I will.”

“Got it. Well, I better get going. Daylight’s burning.”

The salvager waved before abruptly cutting the call. The ethercom’s glass filled with static before the machine turned itself off, leaving Brighid alone with the clamoring sound of her own thoughts. 

She summoned a small spark of flame, shaped it into a ball, and juggled it between her fingers mindlessly. Ciaran. She had not seen him in nearly fifteen years. He probably had not changed much—not a comforting thought. But how had she not realized it was him? With his identity revealed and confirmed, so many pieces of the puzzle made sense: how Cor had managed to slip away so many times, the growing crime rate despite the best economy Mor Ardain had in centuries, why no ordinary soldier could get a workable trail. Ciaran’s ether-blocking techniques could easily help build a criminal empire that even the Special Inquisitor would be hard-pressed to overthrow. But what were Ciaran and his Driver after? Riches and renown were one thing. But these skirmishes were too calculated, too well-timed to be random. Her instinct told her something deeper lurked beneath each Aramach crime. 

That thought, however, paled in comparison to one other: what was she going to tell Mòrag about Ciaran?  _ Was  _ she going to tell Mòrag? Her Driver suspected that Ciaran was involved, but she believed him to be a new incarnation. Brighid feared otherwise.

Before she could decide, however, a nasaly voice yanked Brighid from her reverie.

“Woah, Brighid. I never pegged you for the sort to hide stuff from your Driver.”

Pandoria stood in the doorway, casually leaning against the entrance to the room. Sunlight glared in her glasses.

“Pandoria! Just how long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know that Mòrag’s gonna be pissed when she finds out you’re keeping secrets from her. Why don’t you want Rex to tell her?”

“That is none of your concern.”

Brighid struggled to keep her expression cordial. Of course Pandoria was the one to overhear. She had a knack for entering conversations at inopportune moments—even Zeke’s private conversations. Brighid had nothing against Pandoria, but she did not enjoy the electric Blade’s company, either. The elfish woman could be nosy and overenergetic. Not that Brighid could fault her for the nosiness, though, at least not where her own Driver was concerned. Brighid made a mental note to close the door whenever she next spoke with Rex. There was no telling how often Pandoria would try to overhear her conversations in the coming months. 

“Let me just give you a bit of advice, Brighid. Keeping things from your Driver  _ never  _ ends well. One time, I tried to keep it secret from Zeke that I lost Turters. Only managed to hide it a week before he found out. And let me tell you, he was beyond pissed.”

“This is a far more serious matter than a lost turtle. And if I find you’ve said a word about this to Zeke or Mòrag, Architect help me, I’ll—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll broil me alive or something,” Pandoria interrupted, clearly not perturbed by the threat. “What you do or don’t tell Mòrag isn’t my problem. But don’t come crying to me when she finds out that you’ve been keeping secrets from her.”

“The Jewel of Mor Ardain does not cry.”

Pandoria laughed. “Whatever. But if you need any help questioning that creep Rex nabbed, let me know. I’m already bored of standing around here. A job would be nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have many pressing matters to attend to.”

Not watching to see if Pandoria left the room, Brighid returned to her work. Mòrag would probably show up a little earlier than the two-hour mark, and Brighid wanted to make some progress before she arrived. 

Meanwhile, Mòrag made surprisingly good use of the spare time Brighid had forced on her. Her Blade was correct; she was exhausted. She slept precious little the night before, her mind racing after her conversation with Zeke. After some thought, she almost felt relieved that he knew. But if he told anyone, especially Pandoria…

Lying awake overnight, she’d come up with a plan to, well, “thank him” wasn’t exactly the right word. She  _ did  _ want to thank him for agreeing to this crazy endeavor, for saving her from a lifetime married to a power-hungry noble. And she was grateful for his honesty about his past, more than words could say. But she also  _ needed  _ him to keep silent.

So shortly after Brighid shooed her away from the morning’s work, Mòrag found herself entering the dining area with a parcel stuffed under her arm, a plate of spicy cakes in one hand, and her own breakfast in the other. Finding Zeke was easy thanks to his distinctive hair and Tantalese garments. 

“I hope you’re still a little hungry,” Mòrag said, raising her voice enough to get his attention.

Zeke turned around, half a slice of bacon still hanging from his mouth. The Ardainian press would have a field day if they ever learned of his table manners. “I’m a strapping, muscular chum in his late twenties. I’m always a little hungry.”

“May I join you?”

Zeke nodded. She sat across from him and set the plate beside his current dish. His eyes widened.

“Addam’s embercakes,” he gasped. “Wait, where did you even get these?”

“The kitchens. I can’t promise they’ll be any good. I asked Gawain, our head chef, to try his hand at them...I thought that, since you’ll be living here now, you might want a taste of home.”

Zeke met her gaze and smiled gratefully. “Thanks,” he said, taking a bite. “Not half bad. A few more tries, and it’ll be almost as good as Tantal’s.”

“Gawain will be glad to hear it. Mor Ardain isn’t known for spicy foods. I...I also want you to have this.” 

Mòrag set her package on the table. Zeke raised an eyebrow and proceeded to unravel the haphazardly wrapped canvas. The lumpy cloth fell away to reveal a simple vase. Not much adorned the vase in terms of painting, etchings, or shapes. Not that it needed it; the vase’s beauty rested solely in the material that comprised it. Milky-white faceted crystal reflected light so intricately that, depending on how you looked at it, one side of the vase was purple, another blue, then pink, then yellow.

“A snow-crystal vase.” He whistled. “These are my favorite. How did you know? And where did you get one?”

“...The last time we were in Theosoir with Rex and the others, I saw you admiring these, and I bought one. I figured Tantal’s prince had an eye for the best souvenirs. But I didn’t end up using it. I imagine it’ll be more appreciated in your care...I didn’t peg you for the flower sort, though.”

“I love flowers, actually. More than a lot of women do, I’d wager...We rarely had them in Tantal, what with all the snow and all.”

Mòrag nodded. The Ardainian Titan had not been much better, but Gormott boasted fertile grasslands teeming with wildflowers. She realized now that she had taken those for granted. “Do you have a favorite bloom?”

“Moon flowers, hands down. Such resilient little things, growing in cliffs and rock. Pretty survivors. What are your favorites?”

She paused as warm images surfaced in her mind: a young Niall splashing in a lake, up to his knees in mud. Once he grew tired of the water, he would ramble up onto the shore to pick as many blooms as his little fists could carry before dropping them in a wilting heap on her lap.

“Dawn hydrangeas,” she said at last. “Niall used to pick them for me when we lived in Gormott.”

“Sweet kid,” Zeke murmured. “Now tell me honestly: what are these presents actually for? You’re not the sappy, present-giving type. I can tell you’re after something. What are you bribing me to do?”

“I-it’s not a bribe. It’s an...advanced thank-you gift.” Mòrag twiddled with her fork.

“That’s basically a bribe. What for?”

She lowered her voice. “For not telling anyone about what you saw last night.”

“Of course not.”

“I’m serious, Zeke. Not even Pandoria. Please.”

“My lips are sealed...I mean what I said, though. If you ever need my help, I’m here for you, yeah? Don’t go back there.”

“I’m completely fine now. But I’d still prefer that no one else found out.”

“Ardainian leaders have to be strong, eh? Can’t lose that image.”

“Essentially.”

“I get it. People can be...unfair when it comes to letting royalty make mistakes. Yes, we’re supposed to set a good example. But we’re human, too.”

Mòrag nodded and turned her attention to her breakfast. Zeke seemed to get the cue that it was time for a subject change. 

“What’s on the agenda for today, then?”

“As I understand it, the Emperor will be making a formal announcement about the engagement and subsequent alliance at court this morning. Following that, I have plenty of military matters to attend to.”

“So what can I help with, then?”

Mòrag hesitated. Sure, by the end of the day, Zeke would be regarded as an affiliate of the royal family. But to most Ardainians, he would still be something of an outsider for a while longer. Staff members within the palace might be more open to talking with him than the Special Inquisitor. Maybe with his help, she could make some headway on uncovering Mor Ardain’s spy. 

"...Actually…"

* * *

Screaming was not a foreign sound to members of the Aramach; it was, at times, a necessary part of their occupation. But none of them had heard quite as much screaming as they had the past thirty-six hours. The Boss had brought in a prisoner—a rare occurrence in itself—for questioning. But the truly surprising thing was that he tortured her himself. Rarely did he do his own dirty work. 

“You’re a smart girl, Caelyn. A servant at the imperial estate at such a tender age? That takes incredible potential. You could have a bright future. Tell me the truth and you might get to live out that future. Whose baby was it?”

“Just kill me already. I won’t tell you anything,” the girl whimpered. “I will not betray the Emperor.”

Cor recognized the look in the girl’s eyes—they said that she would have much preferred death to her current predicament. And he could not say he blamed her for the loyal defeatism, either. Cor enjoyed watching people suffer, but the torture the Boss inflicted on his female prisoner was enough to make him even him feel uncomfortable. He had a front-row seat, too. Witnessing the relentless interrogation confirmed that, beyond any doubt, the Boss was not a man to be crossed. Cuts, burns, starvation, near-constant darkness, broken fingers, water dripping on her forehead...it was a long list of methods. Boss’s imagination did not run out, but his patience did. 

So the man played his final trump card.

“Tell me what I want to know, Caelyn,” the Boss whispered in a voice that sent shivers up the spines of all who heard it. He held a white-hot poker just centimeters away from Caelyn’s eye. “As I understand it, your grandmother is still alive. She worked at the estate, too, didn’t she? Perhaps she would be able to tell me instead. Shall I talk to her?”

“No! Don’t hurt my gran,” Caelyn begged.

“Oh, that’s right. A conversation with me might kill her. Her old bones aren’t as resilient as yours.”

“Don’t you dare hurt her, you bastard.”

“Then tell me what I need to know. The child born at Gormott fourteen years ago: was that baby Lady Annabelle’s?” 

Cor’s interest was suddenly piqued. Annabelle was the late Emperor’s wife. If she hadn’t birthed Niall, then the Senate’s whole bid for the throne...was it legitimate after all? Should the Inquisitor be the one on the throne instead? Was the Ardanach dynasty a farce? So many questions, and Cor’s mind spun at the implications of each. 

“I swore I wouldn't say a word.”

“Your grandmother is currently hiding in a small cottage in the residential quarter of Uraya. I can have a man there in twenty minutes. Choose your next words carefully, dear. Yes or no: was it Anabelle’s child?”

"... No." 

That single denial dissipated all of the Boss’s wrath. Cor thought that he almost seemed relieved, or satisfied, somehow. He moved to exit the room, a triumphant grin on his face. 

“...Cor, do what you want with the girl and then dispose of her,” the Boss ordered. 

“Aren't you going to ask her about—”

“Not a word of this to anyone, Cor, or they'll be your fingers next time. I was confirming a suspicion. The girl told me all I needed to hear. So take care of her. I don't pay you to ask questions.”

“Yes, Boss. So does this mean the plan to kidnap the Emperor is a go?”

The man nodded. “I’ll have to contact my source in the Empire, but yes. When we’re finished, the brat won’t be Emperor anymore.”

* * *

_ Just get it over with, Mòrag,  _ she told herself. Her fingers rapped out two quick knocks before she could think better of it. The sound of hurried, clumsy movements echoed from within before Zeke peeked out from the door to his apartments. His chest was completely bare, empty of the typical half-open overshirt and numerous leather belts. For a moment, she struggled to make eye contact, distracted by his exposed skin. For as long she’d known him, Zeke had always possessed a well-defined physique that could only be won with extensive training. Clearly he maintained that regimen even in times of peace. 

“Oh, um...Sorry. I should have realized you’d retired for the evening,” she apologized.

“No worries. What’s up?”

“I was…about to go for an evening walk in the palace gardens,” Mòrag said shyly. “Brighid is already nagging me about picking flowers for the ceremony; she wants the groundskeepers to have time to prepare them. I thought that, maybe since you like flowers so much, you might want to join me.”

Zeke seemed surprised by the suggestion, but he nodded. “Sure. I'm in. Let me, er, grab a shirt.”

He quickly tossed a black shirt over his back, not bothering to button it closed. What a pair they must have made, idly chatting and walking through the palace halls, with Mòrag still in uniform and Zeke only half-dressed. But unlike the night before, conversation flowed naturally, almost as if they were talking about their latest sparring match.

“Here we are,” Mòrag announced when they reached the gardens.

Even in the dim light of the newly-installed lanterns, the royal gardens were the new pride of Mor Ardain. As a country, Mor Ardain had endured centuries without much plant life. So the moment flora became a part of their ecosystem, Ardainians scrambled to make it flourish. Dawn hydrangeas, crystal camellias, mystic dahlias, night lilies, panda pansies, shepherd’s purse, kind marigolds, and dozens of varieties native to Elysium—Mòrag felt as though she spent nearly an hour leading Zeke through the ambling pathways, reciting the name of each flower, why Niall chose it for that patch, and where they had acquired the seeds.

Zeke’s eyes gleamed the entire time. He kept silent for the most part, but when they started their second lap of the gardens, he reached out and squeezed her hand gently. 

“Thanks for showing me this. I love it.”

“You’re welcome.” She surprised herself by letting her hand linger in his. Somehow, knowing her scars brushed up against his made the gesture seem safe.

“So what about this patch, then?” Zeke asked, pointing to an empty patch in the back corner. “What's Niall planning to put there?”

“I don't know. We’re not quite finished with this, I’m afraid. We had to halt aesthetic additions when this whole succession affair came up.”

“It's a shame that it's empty.”

Mòrag nodded. Then an odd idea popped into her head. He  _ did  _ like flowers, after all… “What if we claimed this little patch?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we could choose seeds for it, plant them, take care of them. Together. Dawn hydrangeas and moon flowers might look nice together.”

“True. But us, gardening?” Zeke laughed. 

“ _ Us _ is the key word there, is it not?” Mòrag sighed. “I’ve been thinking about this whole engagement affair. The decision has been made for us. We can’t change it now. So, I thought it might help if we...made a concerted effort to spend time together.”

“Are you...asking me out?”

Mòrag blushed furiously. “N-no. I’m asking you to help me make this work. I’m not expecting us to act like giddy, love-struck adolescents. But...our countries need heirs. We have our duties to perform. Getting to that point...it’s not going to be easy. If possible, I’d like things to be less awkward between us by the wedding.”

“So you want to date me by planting flowers together?”

“It doesn’t  _ have  _ to be flowers. That was just the first thing I thought of.”

Now that she’d made the suggestion, Mòrag felt a bit silly. Planting flowers—that was the best she could come up with? Most people would scoff at the thought of their royals digging around in the dirt. But it was the first and only idea she could think of. Planning leisure activities never ranked high on her priority list, or at least not since Niall was very young. Now she read a chapter or two of a book in the rare spare moments she did have, but that was not something she and Zeke could do together. And apart from sparring, she did not know what Zeke did for fun. 

“We could try cooking, too,” Zeke suggested. He blinked in such an odd way that Mòrag wondered if one-eyed people could wink.

“Absolutely not. I still haven’t recovered from that Argentum monkfish incident.”

Zeke threw his head back and laughed. “I’m kidding, of course. I’m probably even worse at cooking. All I can manage is electrocuting a fish.”

“Personally, I’d get rather tired of fried fish,” Mòrag admitted, chuckling at the mental image of Zeke zapping a fish on a stick.

“Let’s just stick with your idea, then. Could be fun, anyway. A lesson in something new.”

_ This whole arranged marriage will be a new lesson for both of us,  _ Mòrag thought. But maybe, with time, it would not be such a bad lesson after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys can like flowers, too, y'all. That is all.


	7. Old Foes

“I’d prefer to come with you.” 

There it was—the precise answer Brighid expected. Briefing her Driver about the Aramach in Mor Ardain—leaving out the uncertain details about Ciaran’s identity—had been one thing. But convincing her Driver that she should travel back to the outpost alone was another matter altogether.

“We both know that’s not a feasible option at the moment, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid replied. Her response almost felt rehearsed. “You are needed here. This is not a trip you can handle personally, so please allow me to go in your stead.”

Brighid couldn’t shake her own sense of urgency; the more time they wasted, the more likely it was that the Aramach prisoner would be killed or rescued. And the distinct possibility loomed that he might try to kill himself to avoid giving away vital information. In the interest of expediency, she had been very tempted not to ask for Mòrag’s permission. Mòrag hated sending her on solo missions. But since going off unauthorized would have caused her Driver additional stress, Brighid risked it.

“I’m not comfortable sending you off alone. Just think about what Aramach attempted last time,” Mòrag said.

“I won’t be going alone. Pandoria is coming with me.”

Mòrag raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you two were close.”

“Close isn’t the word I’d use. But regardless, I won’t be alone. You needn’t fear for my safety.”

“Fine,” Mòrag relented. “But only if you promise to be back in time for my dress fitting. There is no way on Alrest I’m enduring _that_ alone.”

Brighid forced a small smile. “Of course.”

Before long, Brighid and Pandoria had boarded a skimmer. The smallest ship in the Imperial fleet, it was not built for comfort but rather speed. As such, the ride jostled them uncomfortably. Journal writing was not an option, which meant that Brighid spent the entirety of the ride listening to Pandoria prattle on. Some of her chatter intrigued Brighid, though. For one thing, Pandoria cleared the air on her relationship with Zeke:

“Yeah, I love my prince. But not in _that_ way, you know? Sure, we used to be, um, involved. But that was years ago. One day we just kinda woke up and realized that we were basically platonic. Like siblings almost.”

“So you’re at ease with this arrangement?” Brighid asked. The thought that Pandoria was less perturbed than she herself was just didn’t sit right.

The lightbulb on Pandoria’s hat flickered. “Sorta? I’m okay with the idea of them having kids together. Even if I did still have romantic feelings for my prince, which I don’t, I can’t give him heirs. And even though he comes across as a denser-than-an-Ardun oaf, that’s a duty he takes really seriously.” The electric Blade sighed and twiddled with her tail a moment. “What’s really hard is the thought of having to share him with her. Up ‘til now, it’s been just us and Turters against the world. But once he’s hitched, he won’t be able to pay as much attention to me. Nothing against Mòrag, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

Brighid’s eyes widened, briefly revealing the deep purple of her irises. She and Pandoria had something in common after all. “Agreed. But there is some consolation in knowing that the bond between Driver and Blade is irreplaceable. Not even a spouse can mimic it. That’s especially true for you and Zeke, is it not? You both quite literally sustain each other.”

Pandoria grinned. “Yeah. It’s a cool feeling. And I guess we’ll figure it out together, right?”

“Certainly.” 

Not for the last time did Brighid feel a twinge of jealousy for the unique bond the Tantalese pair shared. Brighid and Mòrag had always been close. But Brighid’s protective instinct almost craved the knowledge that every second of the day, her core was keeping her Driver alive, and vice versa. But the thought of seeing Mòrag bleed to take in part of her core always deterred her from ever suggesting it again.

Pandoria started reminiscing about their delve into the Spirit Crucible, but before she had spoken much on the subject, the skimmer came to a screeching halt at the outpost dock. A flurry of activity quickly followed. Since Brighid had sent word ahead of their coming, everything moved smoothly. Captain Padraig and several other soldiers greeted them at the gangplank and led them to where the prisoner was being held. 

A quick glance around the room told Brighid that her instructions had been followed to the letter. The prisoner, shirtless and clearly exhausted, stood in the center of the room. Perhaps dangled was the better word, though; his toes barely touched the floor, as a hook held his bound arms overhead. Not far away were several buckets of water. 

“And he’s said nothing so far?” Brighid asked. 

“Afraid not, ma’am. We only know what the Driver of the Aegis told us yesterday,” Padraig answered.

Brighid nodded. “Very well. Leave us.”

The soldiers filed out of the room, but Pandoria lingered. “Wait, you’re gonna torture him? Why?” 

“If I must, then yes,” Brighid said dryly. “If you’d rather not be party to it, then I suggest you leave as well.”

“Surely there’s a better way. Maybe cut a deal with him?”

“Mor Ardain does not make deals with criminals and petty terrorists. I do only what I have to.”

“ ‘Kay. I’ll be outside, then.”

Brighid shook her head as the other Blade departed. Torturing prisoners was by far the most distasteful part of her job. But according to her journals, it was a responsibility she had shouldered for countless Emperors and Drivers over the years. Emperor Hugo had been an exception. Despite his youth, he had always possessed an uncanny ability for dealing with thieves and spies without violence. Her previous self admired him for that above all else. 

Today, however, centuries later, the world was a much harsher place. Mòrag usually took the peaceful approach to questioning when she could. But rarely did interrogations go as smoothly as their initial encounter with Nia during the Flesh Eater’s Torna days. When the welfare of the Empire demanded it, Brighid would gladly shoulder the burden of more aggressive questioning. And to her relief, most sessions did not last long. It took an iron will to repeatedly endure the threat of being burned alive. 

“I’m not a patient woman, cur, so I’ll keep this simple,” Brighid announced. “You answer my questions. Refuse to answer or lie to me—and trust me, I’ll know if you do—and you’ll get a burn mark. Each time you give a dissatisfying answer, the heat worsens. Understood?”

The man spat. “I’m not telling you anything. Aramach forever.”

Her index finger lit up like a candle as she ignited the hair around his belly button. “Wrong answer,” she hissed.

Over the years, Brighid had perfected her questioning process. First, she asked minor questions that she didn’t really need answers to. Nearly every subject had the will to resist answering those. But with each unanswered question, her flames grew hotter. Her victim’s resistance fell in nearly perfect correlation. And each question posed was deeper, more important than the last. By the time Brighid asked the questions that truly mattered, the man hovered at the breaking point. 

“The man you’re working for. Who is he? Was he at any point a Driver for the Empire?”

The prisoner attempted to glare at her in response, but she could see the ember of resistance dying in his eyes. She clenched a hand around each of his arms. Flames licked around her fingers, lapping at his skin. His howls split the air. One, two, three, four, five seconds. Enough to blister and scar, but not enough to make him pass out. 

Enough to break his silence.

“You...y-you’re the bitch who maimed the Boss,” he spluttered. 

All the warmth rushed out of her as his words sunk in. So it was true. The Aramach’s leader, Ciaran—they were the Blade and Driver she knew...But no. She had to be sure. She had burned and scarred a lot of scoundrels over the years.

“Where are his scars located?” Brighid summoned another small sphere of flame and let it hover beside the man’s ear. “Answer me!”

“His neck. You tried to strangle him _and_ burn him alive. What a brutal woman.”

Bile rose in her throat. “And his name?” Not that she couldn’t guess; the positioning of the scars gave her all the proof she needed. She only ever attempted to throttle one man. 

“I don’t know. We all call him the Boss.”

“And what is he trying to accomplish?”

The man clenched his mouth shut. His eyes locked on a metal screw in the ceiling above him, trying his best to ignore the fireball by his head. Brighid touched it to his earlobe, but he bravely bit his tongue and refused to speak. 

“Very well,” Brighid said, pulling the nearby buckets of water into a circle around his feet. “If I can’t burn the truth out of you, maybe this will loose your tongue.”

She shot a burst of flame into the first bucket of water. It erupted into a cloud of steam that burst over the man’s bare, burn-mottled skin. Patches of it shone bright pink, teeming with instant blisters. He howled.

“Steam burns can be some of the most painful known to man. And I’ll explode as many buckets as it takes,” Brighid warned. “What is Pachnall trying to do?” She spat the name. The syllables burned like poison on her tongue.

Tears gleamed in the man’s clenched eyes. He shook his head. A second bucket. Then a third. She raised a hand for a fourth—

"Please, please stop. I’ll tell you,” he begged at last. “The Boss wants to destroy the Ardainian government. Especially the monarchy.”

“And how does he intend to do that?” Brighid held her newest fireball perilously close to the surface of the fourth bucket. It hissed at her touch. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know! Please, lady. I’m just a grunt. I do what I’m told. No one tells me the plans.”

Her keen eyes search his; no lies hid there. He truly knew nothing about the Aramach’s greater schemes. Which meant she had learned very little—she’d merely confirmed the leader’s identity: Pachnall. He had survived after all. 

_By my core, this time I’m going to kill him._

With any luck, she would do so before Mòrag learned he was still alive. Hopefully, Rex would return soon with a location on the Aramach base. Then she could take care of it before returning to Alba Cavanich. Bad news quickly dashed her hopes, however. Pandoria and Padraig burst into the room, surprise gleaming in their eyes. 

“Apologies for the interruption, ma’am,” Padraig bowed. “But it’s urgent. We need the Special Inquisitor here immediately.”

“I’m acting on the Inquisitor’s behalf. She cannot be away from the capitol at this time. Unless this is of the direst importance, she is not to be disturbed.”

“I think ‘direst importance’ doesn’t really cover it. Like this is worse news than Zeke falling off a cliff,” Pandoria explained. “Mòrag _needs_ to come out here.”

The Electric Blade’s light bulbs glowed so intensely that the glass looked on the verge of melting. 

“Brighid, it’s Uraya. They took Rex.”

* * *

“Marriage contract negotiations—what the hell is this? I thought Dad and Niall had finished all this nonsense.” 

Zeke shook both his head and the paper; the latter looked suspiciously like a to-do list. Mòrag pulled it away from him and set it back on her desk, hoping her own frustration wasn’t as outwardly visible. It was going to be a long afternoon.

“Their Majesties have finalized most of the terms. But they’ve listed a few decisions that only we can make,” Mòrag explained. “To ensure that this alliance goes smoothly, every last detail must be accounted for, including these.”

“A lot of these I understand. It’s all politics. But how many children we’re going to have? Seems a bit personal to include in a marriage contract, yeah?”

“It’s rather important to discuss, contract or otherwise…” Mòrag sighed. These were not conversations she wanted to have just yet, either. But the politics of the circumstances demanded it. “Do you even know how many children you want?”

“Probably ten or so.”

Mòrag choked on her water. “Ten?!? Zeke, I don’t want to be having children until I’m forty.”

“I was an only child, okay? It was boring until I resonated with Pandy. I had no friends or playmates. I don’t want my kids to go through that. How many do you want, then?”

“One or two. Maybe three if that’s what it takes to have a male heir.”

Zeke scoffed. “The male heir provision is stupid. I vote that our marriage changes that. If our first kid’s a girl, then Mor Ardain can have an Empress. It’s about damn time, anyway.”

“I don’t disagree with you. But Niall’s council will.”

“Just one kid, though? That’s an empty house.”

“This may shock you, but I don’t lead a chaotic personal life. Ten would be chaos.”

“Meet in the middle, then. Six.”

“You won’t be the one carrying them. And that’s not the middle.”

“...Ugh, why are we even talking about this? Why don’t we just start with the first one and see how that goes? We might turn out to be lousy parents, anyway.”

“That would be the logical approach, but they’re going to want a number on this paper. Five? We do have the right to change it ourselves later.”

“Whatever. Let’s go with it and move on to the next one. We’re never going to finish at this rate.”

The list of decisions seemed endless. First came the discussion of how their Blades would pass onto the aforementioned children—Tantal in particular honored an age-old tradition that each of Pandoria’s Drivers would declare the identity of her next Driver in a will and testament (Niall had agreed to allow Mòrag to do the same for Brighid out of respect for the custom). Then there was the rather awkward conversation of how their living arrangements would fall, including the layout of their apartments. The sovereigns had already negotiated that Mòrag and Zeke would stay in Mor Ardain at first. Naturally, their Blades had shared living space with their respective Drivers in the past, with Brighid taking an adjoining room to Mòrag’s and Pandoria crashing anywhere near Zeke’s vicinity, mattress or otherwise. Such an arrangement clearly would not work after the marriage was complete, and no solution readily presented itself. Pandy didn't like the thought of suddenly living and sleeping alone in her own apartments; Brighid hated the suggestion of sharing apartments with the other Blade. And while the thought of sharing a bed with Zeke made Mòrag’s stomach twist in an odd way, the thought of Pandoria sauntering in and intruding on their privacy was truly embarrassing. 

Once they finally managed to draw out an arrangement that would placate both Blades, they moved on to the rest of the list. It felt like hours as they both voiced their opinions for each decision. Occasionally, they agreed instantly, and no discussion was needed. But compromises came more frequently. At first, Mòrag disliked the process as much as Zeke did. After all, most normal couples worked through these issues after a year or two of marriage.

But this arrangement and “normal” did not fit neatly into the same sentence. And she’d read about more than one political marriage that fell apart for the same topics they discussed. A hundred years ago, an Ardainian prince married into the Urayan royal family in pursuit of an alliance. The ugly aftermath of the divorce still left bad blood between the nations even today. At the very least, the present-day contract would help prevent diplomatic tensions if the marriage ended in disaster.

And she almost felt grateful that Niall’s counsellors had demanded they complete this process. For once, they had a say in matters. Granted, it was a small say, but for the first time in weeks, Mòrag felt like her own opinions mattered. Zeke’s, too. And it surprised her how well they worked through the list. In fact, many of their collaborative solutions presented better outcomes than their original, individual preferences. If they hadn’t been at these discussions so long, it might have been enjoyable. 

At long last, the final item was penned.

“I’m ready to sign it if you are,” Mòrag said.

Zeke nodded, took up a quill, and signed—awkwardly, since he rarely wrote his legal name on paper. Mòrag’s signature was quicker, almost thoughtless. Both royals leaned back in their chairs and gave a long, unified sigh.

“Phew. I had no idea getting married could be so exhausting.”

Mòrag laughed. “Imagine how much worse it would be if one of us was our nation's sovereign.”

“No thanks. That was enough paperwork to last a lifetime. By the way, um…while we're on the subject of the whole wedding thing,” Zeke stammered as he began, “because of my sad excuse for a proposal, I never gave you a ring. Now that we’re...officially engaged and all, I should probably fix that, eh?”

Zeke pulled a ring from his pocket. It was fashioned in the traditional Tantalese style, with two braided bands of silver surrounding a square-cut ruby. It had been freshly cleaned and polished, but Mòrag could tell that the ring was rather old. How long had he been carrying it around?

“This was my mother’s. It’s the only thing I have of hers, actually...she meant a lot to me. I know that this is just an arranged marriage and it's hardly the right time. And I understand that we're just friends and all. But I still think you should have it.”

Mòrag took a deep breath. “Zeke, I can’t take this.” 

“It’s fine. My mother would want you to have it. She always hoped I'd give it to my wife one day.”

“No, that’s—”

“Oh, you don’t like it. Not your style? Should have known. You're not big on jewelry.”

“Zeke, that’s not it,” Mòrag insisted. He looked so wounded, it was almost cute. “It’s lovely. And I’ll be honored to wear it when we’re married. But not until then.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rather silly, actually,” Mòrag smiled. “But in Ardainian culture, a woman doesn’t take a ring until she weds. It’s considered bad luck to do so.”

“Weird. Then what the hell is a guy supposed to give a girl?”

“Well, three hundred years ago, you would have been expected to give me at least a hundred of your best cattle and your family’s most treasured Blade core. But since removing Pandoria’s core would probably kill you, I’ll let you keep her.”

“Cows?”

Mòrag nodded, stifling a laugh. 

“I still think I ought to give you something, though. Feels wrong not to.”

“Our contract is sufficient. And it’s only a few weeks away.”

Zeke nodded, but he looked dejected. 

“But, I suppose...if you must give me something, I guess I could allow you to give me another kiss.” 

She hoped that her blush was not as visible as it felt. The first kiss hadn’t been so bad, and if they were truly to produce an heir, then, well...she needed to learn to be comfortable with it. She wanted to learn to be at ease with it, at least. And his mother’s ring was a sweet gesture. He treasured it. By giving it to her, he proved—better than he could with any contract or verbal agreement—that he stood by the arrangement, too. She almost wanted to thank him for that.

Zeke’s mouth hung open. “Wait, you actually want to—”

“Don't get the wrong idea. We, um...well, I don't want us to look like fools when we kiss at the wedding.”

“That's fair,” Zeke whispered, leaning closer. 

She licked her lips nervously as the distance between them shrank. Could he hear her heartbeat? And why was it hammering so? Nervousness never got the better of her in battle. It threatened to now. Part of her screamed to cut it short, say it was a joke. And yet, with his breath brushing her chin, mingling with her own, she couldn't bring herself to pull away, either. He reached up and traced a circle on her cheek with his thumb, urging her to close the remaining distance between them. 

A loud buzz echoed through the office, the ethercom’s noise much louder than it should have been. They jerked apart.

“I, ah, I-I should answer that,” Mòrag stammered.

“Yeah, go for it. Probably important.”

Mòrag pressed the appropriate button, wondering if her cheeks were as red as Zeke’s. It wasn’t as though they’d been caught doing anything wrong. But the embarrassment she felt when Pandoria and Brighid appeared on the opposite end of the ethercom confirmed that housing their Blades in separate apartments was the right call. If this was how she felt when they were caught—well, not even caught, really—almost kissing, then…

“Brighid, how goes the interrogation?” Her voice wavered. But if her Blade noticed the fluctuations, she hid it well. 

“I am confident that the information I’ve gained will help us make some progress on our investigations. But that is not why I’m calling, Lady Mòrag.” Brighid’s tone was urgent. “We have a much bigger problem. It’s Rex and the others. They’ve been captured by Uraya.”

“What the hell?” Zeke gasped.

“Explain.”

“First, I should apologize. I gave Rex permission to track the Aramach member without your consent, and—”

“Now is not the time for apologies, Brighid. What’s happened to Rex? How did they capture him?”

“According to our scouts and messengers, the Aramach’s trail led them into the demilitarized zone between our border and Uraya’s. An Urayan patrol apprehended them and took them into custody.”

“That’s preposterous. On what grounds?”

“At first, they argued that armed civilians were prohibited in the zone. But when the patrol captain learned that Rex was out on an errand for the Inquisitor’s office, the Urayans interpreted that as military force.”

“But our treaty provides contingencies for such a circumstance! They have no right to—”

“I know that, and you know that,” Pandoria chimed in, “but that’s not how Uraya’s spinning it. I think there’s more to this.”

Brighid nodded in agreement. “Something’s not right here. The compensation they’ve demanded for this small breach of conduct is astronomically high. They’re demanding that Mor Ardain dismantle all of our military outposts within fifteen titanpeds of our own borders.”

“That’s ardunshit,” Zeke added. “Has Queen Raqura had too many Myman Stouts lately? She must know this’ll never hold up. And kidnapping our lad Rex, of all people? That’s practically an act of war.”

“Right before we found Elysium, we were on the brink of war with Uraya. Those tensions don’t disappear in a year alone,” Mòrag explained. “Her Majesty’s reactions may be drastic, but we can’t condemn them outright. Mor Ardain would probably respond similarly if the roles were reversed.”

“It is the _Aegis_ we’re talking about, after all,” Pandoria said. “Mythra showing up in a strict no-military zone? That’s bad news no matter how you look at it.”

“We can’t just leave our chum hanging out there, though. Rex did nothing wrong.”

Mòrag took a deep breath. “I will brief the Emperor on the situation and set out for your location at once. Brighid, do what you can to soothe tempers. I will not have our men exacerbating the situation. And if you can set up a meeting with Urayan dignitaries, I will meet with them as soon as I arrive.”

“Understood. I’ll contact your airship if there are any additional developments.” 

Mòrag gave a tense nod before hanging up. 

“We shouldn’t waste any time, I guess,” Zeke sighed. “Let’s get going so Uraya can’t turn this into a petty war.”

“You’re coming?”

“You bet. I mean, it won’t be as pleasant as gardening, but we’re a team now. And those Urayan bastards are holding my friends hostage, too.”

Mòrag replaced her hat and returned her whipswords to their customary positions on her hips. She just hoped that this time she wouldn’t need to use them. She swallowed hard, hoping to dispel the lump in her throat. Why was it that every time Rex volunteered to do a favor for her, he ended up headfirst in danger? She requested his help so rarely, but each time seemed more perilous than the last. 

There was a bitter irony to the thought that Rex, the champion of their current peace and prosperity, might now become the spark of Elysium’s first war. 

In a matter of minutes, Mòrag stood in the throne room briefing the Emperor on the situation. The room went utterly silent at her report. And it was no surprise why: “delicate” was an inadequate description of the situation. Niall’s self-sacrifice might have gained them some favor in Raqura’s eyes, but Uraya still blamed the Ardainians for the Temperantia incident. And rightly so. Not even two years had passed; some of the reparations remained unpaid, some of the tombstones still uncarved. Urayan grieving customs endured more than a year. A few of Uraya’s widows—whose husbands were identified long after the incident—still donned their black robes. 

Uraya had every right to distrust Mor Ardain. But the latter had equal rights to retaliate for Rex’s capture. Every nation regarded Rex as a hero, but to most Ardainians, he was something of a saint or god. After all, a day or two more without Elysium would have buried thousands of Mor Ardain’s citizens in a murky tomb beneath the Cloud Sea. But would they be willing to go to war over an affront to Rex’s honor and safety? 

An official summit would have to take place, ideally before any blood spilt. Formal negotiations had worked once, seemingly against all odds. Mòrag didn’t like praying to the Architect, especially now that she knew he perished with the Conduit. But she found herself whispering a small prayer that Uraya could be reasoned with. Things rarely happened the same way twice. And this time, there was no Indol to play at being a peacemaker between them. 

“You may depart at once, Inquisitor. But I will accompany you,” Niall announced. “Uraya must know that this threat will not go unanswered.”

“Your Majesty, I respectfully object to that proposition. Notwithstanding the demilitarized zone between our countries, that area is unstable. I was ambushed by members of the Aramach there. I could not guarantee your safety,” Mòrag countered.

“Special Inquisitor, I understand and appreciate your concern. But this dispute must be resolved quickly, for Rex’s sake at least. The entirety of Alrest owes him their lives. Uraya’s actions are egregious and must be answered with equal gravity. My presence will have that effect.”

“Your Majesty, please consider what happened the last time we had an official summit with Uraya. And I have a bad feeling about this whole affair.”

“Uraya was not responsible for the attempt on my life. And while I trust and respect your instincts, I will be going. There will be no further discussion on the matter.”

If they had been alone, Mòrag would have spoken more openly, told him that his actions were reckless and nearly irresponsible, especially with Eulogimenos still a guest in the palace. But before the court, she had to swallow her pride and bury her concern beneath the mask of her office. Here their blood did not matter—only their offices. The Special Inquisitor could not object now that his command rang in her ears. 

Zeke broke the silence.

“Listen Mòrag, if it makes you feel better, I’ll guard Niall personally while we’re out there,” he volunteered. “That way you can focus on investigating and keeping the military in check. Between Aegeon and me, no one will get within five meters of him.”

Niall brightened at the suggestion. His formal facade faded. “I for one would welcome the opportunity to better acquaint myself with my future brother-in-law. Does that arrangement ease your mind, sister?” 

“Promise me you’ll keep him safe,” Mòrag said quietly.

“You’ve got my word. He’ll come home without a scratch, or I’m not Thunderbolt Zeke.”

“Very well.”

A few hours later, for the first time since docking in Elysium, the Emperor’s flagship departed Mor Ardain. Mòrag couldn’t shake the sickening feeling that it would not return.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A conflict with Uraya was not in the original plan for this fic, but here we are. Things are getting messy for our dear little royals. 
> 
> On a side note, I was doing some planning/plotting for the wedding chapter (yes, it's coming, slowly but surely). I looked at one or two pics on Pinterest to get inspiration for Morag's dress...and now I'm constantly getting wedding ads. Like back off, internet cookies. I'm not getting married. She is. X'D


	8. Déja Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faster update than expected because I am waiting to get my next project from a client. Long story short, I got a longer weekend than I wanted. Bad news is I'll make less money this week, but the good news is that I got to write more. I can live with that trade-off. 
> 
> Let's jump in.

“Forgive my bluntness, madam,” Niall began, “but I was under the distinct impression that Her Majesty Raqura would be meeting with us in person.”

Mòrag had intelligence reports of Raqura’s personal Blade, but she had never before met the woman in person. Ingrid, despite her resonance with the Urayan queen, was distinctly non-Urayan: fair skin, golden hair, pale green eyes, and a slight frame, like an angel out of a storybook. If not for her pale blue core crystal, one might have mistaken her for a gentler incarnation of Mythra. But according to the reports, Ingrid was more of a support Blade than a fighter, with healing and remote ether communications being her top talents. Her presence explained why she was the only member of the anticipated Urayan delegation. 

“That was the original intention,” Ingrid added. She might not have looked like her Driver, but she certainly sounded like her. “But given the circumstances, those plans have changed.”

“What circumstances?” Mòrag asked.

“I’m surprised that you don’t know,” the Blade replied. “But I will allow Her Majesty to explain.” 

Ingrid closed her eyes and outstretched her hands. Streams of ether shot from her palms, weaving together like a magic silk. Before long, the small patch of ether had grown into a complete, glimmering screen. The queen of Uraya’s image manifested before her Blade, as clear and constant as if she had been there in person. 

“Your Majesty, I will not mince words. Release the Aegis, her Driver, and their companions immediately,” Niall said firmly.

“I would gladly do so, if Master Rex had been here on personal business. But he was here on business for Mor Ardain. I cannot overlook that.”

“Oi, Raqura, cut the crap,” Zeke interrupted. “Rex was pursuing a known criminal. Mor Ardain has given you detailed reports about it. It’s in your country’s best interests to see that bastard and his companions apprehended. There’s no way you can really pin this as an act of war. Mor Ardain had every right to send Rex into that area. What’s this really about?” 

Raqura glared at the prince. “It seems Tantal has yet to learn diplomacy, at least when it comes to non-Ardainian nations. Your Majesty, you have been direct, so I will return the favor. I had no desire to capture the Driver of the Aegis. I will gladly release him back to your country...on a few conditions.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“The demilitarized zone must be expanded, as we’ve already stated. But more importantly, Mor Ardain must call off its alliance with Tantal.”

“That is a very high demand to make,” Niall said. A warning lined his tone.

“Consider this from Uraya’s position, Your Majesty. My people do not trust Mor Ardain. Many of my citizens believe that Indol kept the empire’s power in check. I am of a similar opinion. And now with Indol gone and this pending alliance with Tantal, Mor Ardain will hold more than three-quarters of the land within Elysium.”

“It is an alliance, not an annexation,” Niall replied. “Tantal will remain a sovereign nation.”

“For now. But who’s to say that thirty years from now, the heirs of this union will not seek to unify the territories under one banner? You are young, Niall Ardanach. I cannot expect you to truly understand how that threat affects Uraya’s position.”

“You fear that we will try to take over your territory next,” Mòrag said. “Preposterous. His Majesty has honored the peace treaty since it was signed.”

“Has he, Inquisitor?” Raqura cleared her throat. “If the Aegis’s presence in the demilitarized zone were the only breach of conduct, then I could convince my countrymen to overlook this affair. But you should know as well as anyone that your military has taken other actions against us, Mòrag.”

“What are you playing at, lady?” Zeke asked.

“Ardainian soldiers are currently attacking my soldiers as we speak.”

“Impossible. I gave specific orders for all our men to stand down. My Blade saw to it personally.”

“Then you have some rogue soldiers who are not as keen on peace as you are,” Raqura said. She seemed pleased that she had more information. “Which proves that Uraya’s concerns of Ardainian conquest are well-founded. As such, I have already commanded my vanguard to march on the Ardainian border. But I don’t want a war, either. Call off this alliance and I will recall them without further bloodshed.”

The sound of distant gunfire proved the queen’s words. Niall shuddered at the noise.

“I implore you, Your Majesty. These actions are not necessary. Mor Ardain has no intention of waging war against Uraya. Any actions to the contrary are a misunderstanding. Please recall your men, and we will investigate and punish the offenders immediately. Once the dust has settled we can meet to discuss these matters further.”

“If you can pull back your soldiers, I will pull mine back as well. But know this: once a man has lost his friend on the battlefield, it is hard to pull him back. And I have many who are eager for Ardainian blood.”

Raqura signaled to her Blade, who ended the ether connection and dismissed herself from the room. Now that the conversation was over, they could easily hear the noises of battle, far closer than anticipated. 

“Special Inquisitor. Please see to it that our men are brought back into line. I authorize any force necessary.”

Mòrag nodded and bowed, her whipswords already at the ready. “Zeke, I’m entrusting you with the Emperor’s safety. Don’t let me down.”

“You got it. Don’t let us down, either.”

The Flamebringer and her Blade disappeared, and in a matter of minutes, a trail of blue flames carved their path through the battlefield. Zeke shivered at the thought of how quickly the fight was spreading. Like Mòrag, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was dreadfully wrong with this whole situation. But why? He couldn’t pin down a convincing reason.

Niall moved to the window. His forehead left greasy prints on the glass. The young Emperor clasped his hands behind his back, as if he was trying to summon some of Mòrag’s unshakable confidence. But judging by his shaking fingers, the posture didn’t help. He stood in silence for a long time.

“I should be out there, fighting with them,” Niall said, his voice hardly above a whisper. “But here I am hiding while my sister puts herself on the line instead. What kind of Emperor am I?”

Zeke gave Pandoria a quick nod; the Blade made herself scarce. “You’re worried that you’re not being a good king.”

“How could I not? My own Senate wants to oust me.”

“That’s ‘cause they’re power-hungry, not because you’re bad at the job, kid. Look, Niall. You’re pigeon-holing yourself into the centuries-old definition of a good Ardainian emperor. If you’re trying to be Hugo, then sorry, you’ve completely botched it. You’re not him. But I don’t think Mor Ardain needs a warrior-king right now. After all, you’ve already got a warrior-princess and her Jewels,” Zeke laughed. “What Mor Ardain needs right now is a peacemaker. A warrior can’t do that. Which makes you just the man for the job.”

“I’m not doing a very good job keeping peace though, am I?”

“No one ever said the road to peace was a gilded highway. That’s because you have to build it yourself. And despite Uraya, I think you’re setting a pretty good foundation, Niall.”

Niall continued to stare through the window, his eyes tracing the line of carnage Mòrag left in her wake. “She should have been Empress.”

“Sure, she’d be great at the job. But she’s not in charge. You are. I know that isn’t a great pep talk. But you can’t get distracted by the ‘what-ifs’ right now. You’ve got to focus on what you can control.”

“That is just what my sister would say.”

“You might not be the warrior she is, but there is one thing you can accomplish right now that she can’t.”

Niall tilted his head to the side. “And what’s that?”

“Get Uraya back to the negotiating table. You threw yourself in front of a live bomb to save their ruler, kid. That’s some serious pull. Mòrag can’t do that. I can’t. The Senate can’t. I doubt even Rex could. You can. But only if you stay focused.”

Niall’s brow furrowed as he considered this.  _ I am terrible at pep talks,  _ Zeke thought.  _ And who am I kidding? This kid’s got more experience ruling than I do. I should be asking  _ his  _ advice on how to run a country.  _ But to his relief, the young ruler’s scowl shifted into a smile.

“You’re right. Raqura does owe me a favor. And I’ve placated Uraya once before. Architect grant me the wisdom I need to do so again...So you think my sister is a warrior princess?”

“Please don’t tell her I said that.”

The Emperor laughed. “You...you like her. Don’t you?”

“I-it’s complicated,” Zeke stammered. He fidgeted with the band of his eyepatch. How much did Niall know? He might have been young, but he was a keen observer. And of course, Mòrag might have told her brother something about the time they spent alone together. The thought that Niall might know the story of his ill-timed, very rushed first kiss made Zeke’s toes curl in embarrassment. “I, well, I admire and respect her more than anyo—look, have you ever had a crush, kid?”

“No. My station does not afford me many opportunities for peer relationships.”

“Well, you could say that I’m somewhere beyond a simple crush, but...the thought of marrying her is still kinda weird. I’m okay with it, of course, but it’s still weird.”

“I have no intention of meeting Uraya’s demands to call off the alliance. So I hope you’re able to reconcile yourself with this union. As for Mòrag, she—”

A loud explosion outside drowned out whatever Niall said next. A captain rushed into the room; footsoldiers trailed behind him, guns in hand. 

“Your Majesty! Things in the field have taken a turn for the worse. We have to get you to safety.”

Another blast shook the earth, closer this time. Zeke shuddered at the sound. Those weren’t normal missiles. Those were anti-aircraft shells. But who had anti-aircraft technology out here in the demilitarized zone? Uraya? The Aramach? Did it even matter? 

_ I have a bad feeling about this whole affair...Promise me you’ll keep him safe.  _ Mòrag’s words echoed in Zeke’s mind, reverberating like a death knell. Niall’s airship made for a big target—on the ground and in the air. Mòrag’s instincts rarely faltered. But which threat was worse: terrestrial or aerial?

He made a judgment call. “Your Majesty, I have a plan. But it’s a little unusual. Do you trust me?”

The Emperor nodded.

“Captain, how many people does it take to fly this ship?”

“Bare minimum, two. But then it would be vulnerable to every attack.”

_ That should work.  _ get this ship ready to launch.”

* * *

Outside on the battlefield, confusion reigned. Mòrag came to the field with one simple goal: to recall the Ardainian soldiers back to base with as few Urayan confrontations as possible. Niall needed Raqura at the negotiating table, and that could not occur until both armies were back in line. It fell to Mor Ardain to make the first concession. 

Recalling their men in uniform proved difficult, but not impossible. The more zealous Ardainians longed to strike a blow against Rex’s captors. And greenhorn recruits and veterans alike were swept away by the adrenaline of their first combat in months. On those men, Mòrag’s presence had a stabilizing, sobering effect: the sight of the Special Inquisitor pulled them back into formation. Slowly but surely, they began to fall back to the military outpost. 

Not all obeyed so readily, however. 

“You there! Fall back!” Mòrag shouted at one particularly stubborn soldier. A private, by the looks of his armor. 

“Are you daft, man?” Brighid added. “The Special Inquisitor has given you a direct order! Do as you’re told, or you’ll lose that uniform faster than you earned it!”

The soldier turned to them, the bug-like eyes of his helmet meeting their gaze. He raised his gun and fired. 

The shot caught them so badly off guard that Mòrag could not evade it completely. The bullet grazed her cheek. If she’d dodged a half-second later…

“What the hell?” 

Rogue soldiers—it explained everything. The unprovoked attack, Uraya’s response, the disproportionate number of Ardainian bodies to enemy combatants...a good part of the Ardainian cohort had staged a mutiny. 

A quick glance around the battlefield proved her theory. Ardainian soldiers found themselves fighting not only Urayans but also other Ardainians. And telling a turncoat apart proved impossible until attacked; many true Ardainian soldiers fell, unaware of the threat until a bullet had already lodged in their flesh. 

_ Why rebel now? Are tensions at the border outposts really this bad? _

“Lady Mòrag, focus!” Brighid shouted, bullets bouncing off the shield she erected. The flames at the tips of her hair gleamed white-hot. 

Mòrag parried or evaded the rogue soldier’s next several shots easily. The sword in her left hand extended into a whip, knocking the gun from his hands.  _ Who is this?  _ None of the Ardainian soldiers were this sloppy, were they? And the way these rogue soldiers moved...they ought to be fighting in the style of an Ardainian cohort. Each squadron in her army used numbers to their advantage, especially in unknown territory like this. They ought to be surrounding her; even she and Brighid couldn’t resist a barrage of bullets from all sides. Not indefinitely, anyway. But these rebelling soldiers operated independently. These divided tactics certainly made their movements more chaotic, but they also exposed themselves to danger whenever they encountered a foe more powerful than themselves. So anyone who crossed paths with Mòrag was quickly overwhelmed. 

_ What if they’re not rebel soldiers after all? _

She hatched a plan instantly, her limbs streaming into motion as quickly as the thoughts entered her head. Hellfire to throw him off balance. A whipsword swung out and around his right flank, cutting off an escape route. Then a sprint forward, tossing her blades back to Brighid. Her hands now free, she kicked his legs out from under him. As he fell, she grabbed his helmet and yanked it off. 

His head hit hard against a tree root. Out cold.

“Lady Mòrag, his beard—” Brighid began.

“As I suspected.”

Members of the Ardainian military were to be clean-shaven at all times. The uniform demanded it. But this man’s beard, which had been awkwardly jammed underneath his collar, extended to his chest. Similar dreadlocks fell to his shoulders—also not military protocol. 

“Aramach?” Mòrag asked. Her Blade had more experience with the organization than she. 

“That would be the most logical explanation, yes. It would explain the rogue soldiers.”

“They have our uniforms now. How?”

“Wolves in sheep’s clothing,” Brighid mused. “That explains why Uraya thought we attacked them. Hmm...Aramach members could infiltrate nearly any military area now if we’re not cautious.”

Mòrag’s face blanched. “The Emperor’s flagship...Architect, they’re going after Niall.”

Brighid wished she could convince her Driver that wasn’t the case, that it was just a coincidence. A band of criminals couldn’t know the Emperor was here, could they? But she’d heard it from an Aramach himself: the Imperial crown was a target. Her stomach knotted. She had not yet briefed Mòrag about the interrogation; she’d hesitated, hoping that she could work out an explanation that left out Pachnall’s identity. Was her secrecy about to get Niall killed?

“Should we retreat to the flagship, then?”

Mòrag thought for a moment, then shook her head. “We’re still needed here. And Zeke is with him. He’s a hard person to fool. Still, let’s have word sent regarding these impostors.” 

The Inquisitor signaled to a nearby squadron of soldiers. After they’d shown their faces—all clean-cut military men she recognized—she passed along her orders. The squad split, half returning to the emperor and half joining the two women. The new plan was simple: clear out as many impostor soldiers as they could. If they could diffuse tensions with Urayan soldiers, too, then all the better. The approach required far less fighting than she would have liked; she was a woman of action, after all. Words were Niall’s strength, not hers. 

Thankfully, most Urayans recognized Mòrag; at the very least, they knew of her. And the sight of the Special Inquisitor approaching with sheathed weapons and raised hands was enough to make any soldier do a double-take. Some agreed to stand down. It was, however, too little too late. The Aramach had caused enough damage that the majority of “retreating” Urayans had done so to avenge their fallen comrades, boarding their airships or regrouping with their squads. The fight spread to the skies. 

On the surface, Mòrag looked fine, her face impassive as she cut through her enemies. But it was all an act; had she and Brighid been alone, she might have succumbed to her growing panic. It stuck in her throat. If she stopped, it would choke her. Doubtless her Blade could sense the anxiety through their ether bond; a similar sense of dread echoed back from her companion. 

Neither woman said anything, nor did they have time to. Bullets screamed through the woods. They bounced harmlessly off Brighid’s ether shield. Ordinary soldiers weren’t so lucky. The stench of blood and gunpowder stung in her nostrils. Mòrag stopped shouting orders; the roar of engines above overpowered every sound, punctuated by the raucous explosions of anti-air missiles. 

_ We have to retreat. Now. Tracking down the Aramach will have to wait.  _

Every legitimate Ardainian soldier knew two things. First, the Special Inquisitor’s orders were akin to orders from the Emperor himself. Second—and in this case, more importantly—the Inquisitor’s Blade acted as a built-in signal flare. Together, Brighid and Mòrag could shoot pillars of Soulfire into the sky. It was not a tactic they used often; they were restricted to the most rudimentary commands (and while the soldiers were trained in the meaning of each signal, many misinterpreted them). And worse, the process telegraphed their position to the entire battlefield. 

It was a risk they’d have to take. 

But before she could pass her second whipsword to Brighid, her overwhelming sense of dread manifested itself in an awful burst of metal and flame. 

At some point during the battle, Niall’s flagship had taken to the skies, retreating to a more defensive position as the tides of the battle turned. Mòrag noted that it was moving even slower than normal. Were they short-staffed? If so, she would have some punishments and demotions to dole out later on. Abandoning the Emperor was never an acceptable course of action, and Niall would never order his personal guard into the fray. 

Numbness washed over her. Not one, not two, but three missiles lacerated the skies. Each one screeched like a carrion vulture as it rocketed towards its mark. 

Imperial airships—especially those belonging to a head of state—were heavily reinforced with the latest defensive technology. But nothing is truly impenetrable; each ship had its weakness. Niall’s was no exception. The details of the ship’s construction were known only to a select few, but at the rear was a ventilation shaft for the Titan’s vaporized fluids. The right amount of force could destabilize it completely. 

In theory, it was a once-in-a-lifetime shot. And a single lucky hit was not enough to cause significant damage. Three, however, would be.

“Brighid!”

The Blade didn’t need prompting; she’d already sprung into action. Fireballs unlike any she’d yet summoned rocketed into the air, chasing after the missiles. For a sickening second, it seemed that Brighid’s flames would win that deathly race. But the blue spheres spluttered out inside a low-hanging cloud. The missiles continued. The battlefield fell silent.

Then the heavens split in two.

The force of the blast knocked everyone in the area to the ground. A cloud of orange and red poured down scraps of charred metal and stone like scalding rain. Ether shields dotted the battlefield below, sheltering both friend and foe from the debris. There was a brief moment when every fighter paused to process what transpired. And then the Ardainians sprung into action. 

For Mòrag and Brighid, that moment lasted far longer. Mòrag still lay where the blast tossed her. If not for Brighid’s shield, the debris would have burned her. Her ears rang. But the emptiness in her hearing was nothing compared to the great gaping hole that grew in her stomach. She rose on unsteady feet, eyes still trained on the dissipating cloud of destruction above.

“Niall. Zeke…” she whispered. 

“...We don’t know that they were aboard when it happened,” Brighid suggested feebly. 

“Where else would he have been, Brighid?” Mòrag snapped. “They—they’re…”

_ No, don’t think about that. If the worst has really happened, you’re in charge. Act now. Cry later. _

Mòrag almost hated how easily she could detach herself emotionally in a crisis. It made her wonder if her loyalty to the military had forced her to abandon her own humanity. But soldiers that grieved on the battlefield died beside their companions. And she was no ordinary soldier. If she died, other soldiers would, too. 

The next few hours unfolded in a blur of activity. Mòrag cut off her ether connection with Brighid, relying on physical strength alone to fight. They could not share ether now, much less the accompanying emotions.  The worst of the fighting seemed to have passed; Uraya ordered its men to retreat. No one was sure why. Perhaps they feared the ensuing Ardainian retaliation, or they caught on to the hypocrites and decided to make themselves scarce. Or maybe Raqura felt confident that the alliance worrying her countrymen was no longer a threat. No more Aramach appeared to continue the violence, either. 

The woods finally fell silent. Only the dull crackle of fading embers filled the air. 

“Special Inquisitor, your orders?” a soldier asked. 

“Fall back to the outpost. Radio all other squads to do the same. I...I’ll make my way there shortly. I need to go investigate,” her voice wavered.

“We’ll accompany you, ma’am.”

“No. You’ve been given your orders.”

Concern lined the man’s face, but he nodded and obeyed. The soldiers trotted away. 

“Mòrag, are you...it’ll still be on fire—”

“I have to see for myself, Brighid.”

“You’re doing it again. Please don’t shut me out,” Brighid pleaded.

Her Blade reached out through the ether, a blue thread extending between them. Mòrag backed away, as if she could dodge the connection. But it latched on, and the emotions she’d tried to keep at bay rushed through the bond. 

“No, stop,” Mòrag protested feebly. “I can’t do this now.”

The Driver took a few stumbling steps towards the blast site. But she faltered, and Brighid caught her and pulled her close. Mòrag’s brave facade broke. She went limp, her body overwhelmed with the sobs she failed to stifle. Her tears fell and turned to tiny bursts of steam against the fire Blade’s skin. 

“They—they’re—” 

Guilt kept Brighid silent. What could she say? How could she confess that she knew Niall was a target? This was  _ her _ fault.

How long they lingered there, neither knew. It must have been hours, though, because an Imperial skimmer came into view. Was it combing the area for survivors now that it was clear the skirmish was over? Brighid pulled Mòrag to her feet and shot a fireball or two into the sky. The skimmer recognized her signal and circled into a boarding position. The gangplank thudded against the forest floor.

Mòrag sheathed her weapons and tried to wipe away her tears with her soiled gloves.

“Hey there, ladies. Need a ride?” someone shouted from inside the skimmer. 

Mòrag’s eyes widened. The intonation in that voice—smooth, sarcastic, theatrical. She knew it well. But it couldn’t be. The blast, the flagship...there was no surviving that explosion. She bounded up the gangplank, Brighid a step or two behind. 

Her ears hadn’t fooled her. Zeke took up nearly half of the skimmer’s seating area, reclining comfortably on one of the benches. He waved casually. 

“You’re alive,” she huffed. It was the only sentence her reeling brain could form. 

“Did you honestly think  _ that  _ was all it would take to bump me off?” Zeke asked. “I’m wounded, Flames.”

She fought the impulse to punch him—but whether it was from sheer relief or the frustration at the “Flames” nickname, she wasn’t really sure. “And Niall?”

“See for yourself.”

Zeke’s reclined figure took up so much of the skimmer’s meager seating area that Mòrag had not noticed the much smaller figure sitting against the opposite wall: the young Emperor, his posture immaculate, his clothes pristine. Not a fiber or hair out of place. Her heart rate slowed instantly; thank the Architect, he was alive. That hole in her gut that formed after the explosion was just a bad memory.

She was at his side in an instant, accidentally knocking off her hat on the airship’s low ceiling. All afternoon, her muscles clenched like taut springs, ready to burst into motion and retaliate. Not even her tears had managed to release that tension. But at the sight of him safe and sound, all that pent-up energy dropped out from under her. Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees in front of him. She ought to stand—he was still the Emperor. All she’d intended to do was to hug him, to feel his slight frame in her arms, to convince herself that it was real. But here she was in a crumpled heap at his feet. 

And for once, she didn’t care. Their stations did not matter now. All that mattered was that Niall was still here. The nightmare had not stolen him. Death left empty-handed. 

Her head fell into his lap. “I was terrified that I’d lost you,” she whispered. 

Niall stroked her head gently, slipping a few stray hairs behind her ear. “I apologize for making you worry. Again.”

His voice soothed the last remnants of terror from her mind. For a moment, the outside world fell away, and they were back at Gormott. But now it was Niall doing the comforting after the nightmare, not the other way around. How many nights had she spent holding him, reassuring him that the dreams weren’t real? But when he ascended the throne, Niall quickly learned that the nightmares often came to life after all. The numerous attempts on his life proved as much. If only she could take him back to Lake Yewtle, where the greatest danger was a skinned knee and soiled clothes. 

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she said, finally leaning into an upright, more refined position. “I ought to have been there protecting you. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Mòrag. You left me in the most capable hands.”

Mòrag rose and took a seat beside the young Emperor. “I can’t thank you enough, Zeke.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. Just doing my part, eh?” Zeke waved it off like the whole affair had been a simple mail delivery. 

“He’s being modest. If not for his quick thinking and excellent bladework, I would never have left my flagship, much less made it to this ship instead,” Niall added. 

“There’s nothing quite like cheating Death to help you bond with your future little brother, right?”

Niall nodded, an unvoiced laugh lingering in his eyes. “Indeed. But I am far more grateful for the time we spent before things became dangerous.”

The Emperor and the prince exchanged small, knowing smiles. Mòrag wondered what transpired between them to warrant such a look. Niall had always appreciated Zeke’s humor—a rare commodity in the Ardainian court—but the expression the Emperor wore now mingled respect and admiration. 

_ Perhaps it’s for the best,  _ she thought. Since Emperor Nealon’s death, Niall had very few good male influences in his life. Yes, he had his counselors and Aegeaon. But the former were thrice his age (some older), the latter stoic and while loyal, not much of a friend. Zeke might have had his rougher, un-princely edges, but she remembered clearly how only Zeke managed to persuade Rex away from the World Tree. And that was not the only time Zeke had mentored Rex, either. Maybe he could do the same for Niall. After all, she could not teach him everything. Some things she didn’t want to teach, either. Whenever the day came that Niall found himself dutifully seeking or even gladly pursuing a partner, well...Zeke seemed far better equipped to give “girl advice.” 

“I’m glad you are both safe,” Mòrag said at last. “But how? When I saw the airship explode…”

Zeke spoke first. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all the time I’ve known you, it’s that your instincts are rarely wrong. And you had a bad gut feeling from the moment this whole mess started. So I trusted it. Even before your message about the pseudo-soldiers, I decided that Niall’s airship could be a convenient target. So we took the unmarked skimmer instead. Not as classy or comfortable, but too cozy is better than burnt to a crisp.”

“We will have to arrange for a state funeral for the soldiers who lost their lives in the blast. They sacrificed themselves so we could escape,” Niall said, his expression falling. Fatigue lined his eyes. “And we will also need to arrange for a formal summit with Uraya at a much safer location. Assuming they will still even be willing to negotiate at this point.”

“They’ll come. Now we know the whole mess was just those arseholes stirring up trouble. Raqura will understand that,” Zeke said. His normally confident tone wavered.

“But Your Majesty needn’t worry about that right now. It’s late, and you’ve had a long few days. Best not to strain yourself. Let those be tomorrow’s troubles,” Mòrag urged.

Niall sighed. Now that someone mentioned his exhaustion out loud, he dropped the facade of royalty he wore so well. His shoulders drooped, and he removed his crown and set it on his lap. He let his head fall against Mòrag’s shoulder. 

“Do you...mind if I rest a while? They’ll need my report when we get back,” he murmured.

His informality startled her, but she shifted her arm and wrapped it around him. After her simple nod, he succumbed to the weight of his eyelids and drifted off to sleep. Mòrag took his crown in her free hand and set it in her lap, protecting it, protecting him. Just as the Special Inquisitor should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle sequences stress. me. out. I may come back and update this section later to smooth it out, but this is a start. There was a lot of chaos to sort through here! 
> 
> Please don't hate me for the explosion fake-out. The sweet little emperor is alive and well, and now Morag is in Zeke's debt. And yes. I'm still getting wedding ads thanks to this fic. XD


	9. True Drivers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New longest chapter, incoming!

Zeke felt an odd tightness in his chest as he watched the pair of siblings seated across from him. Not for the last time did he envy their bond, either. But was it because he’d always wanted a sibling? Or because he wished Mòrag would be even half as worried for his safety, too?

_ Ugh, stop it. This is just politics for her. She’s only doing this because Niall needs her to.  _ Pandy warned him that any feelings he developed for the Ardanian princess would be unrequited, but did he listen? No. He had tried and failed to mimic Mòrag’s detached approach to the impending marriage. An unrequited crush was one thing—he’d had them before, and they’d gone away over time. But this crush was going to end in a wedding. Absence wasn’t exactly going to make his feelings conveniently vanish. He knew Mòrag would marry him out of duty alone, and that almost scared him.

And yet, there were moments that made him wonder if she wasn’t completely aloof after all. She had been the one to suggest they kiss again a few days earlier, with the cute excuse that they needed to practice for the wedding. Was it an excuse, though? Granted, Mòrag was all about appearances, and she  _ would _ want to avoid an awkward kiss in front of her entire country during the ceremony. But something about her expression when she suggested it…

Regardless, judging by the way she looked at the small, sleeping Emperor, it was clear that he would always take second place after Niall. The way she ran a gloved finger through his hair, gently kissed his forehead—that tenderness made Zeke almost not recognize her as the same woman who’d blazed a path through her enemies an hour before. She yawned and pulled off her hair clip to make it more comfortable to lean against the wall of the skimmer. Her eyes closed, and the stern expression she wore all day faded. For a moment, Zeke debated about going to find Pandoria; just sitting here watching the siblings nap seemed rude. But he’d never actually seen her hair down; how nice it looked surprised him. It made her seem younger, more carefree. 

_ Who am I kidding? Arranged marriage or not, she deserves better than a dork like me.  _

“What are you staring at?”

Her voice startled him—of  _ course  _ she wasn’t actually asleep. 

“Er, sorry. Didn’t mean to. I was just lost in thought.” He scratched the back of his head.

“About?”

“I...I think you’ll be a really good mom.”

Mòrag’s eyes fell, and she looked back at Niall. “The thought scares me, to be honest.”

“Because you have to have a kid for political necessity? Or because you’re stuck with me as the father?”

“Don’t put it so crassly,” she replied. “I mean, yes, the arrangement will take some getting used to. But even if this were a relationship that I’d chosen and pursued of my own initiative, I’d still be scared about having children.”

“Why’s that?”

She hesitated. “The world can be a very cruel place. Elysium is beautiful, but she cannot change the people who live in it. I’ve seen firsthand how...how awful humans can be towards each other. That’s why I’ve dedicated my life to protecting Niall, not just from attempts on his life but from the strain of his own birthright. And even with my best efforts, with my undivided attention, I’ve nearly lost him. Several times, in fact. If I can’t protect one boy, how can I expect to do so with my—with our children?”

“You think I won’t help?”

“That’s not it. I know you’ll help. But that doesn’t make the monsters of the world disappear.”

“...Mòrag, look at Niall. He’s asleep in your arms.”

“And your point is?”

“Niall understands how messed up the world is. Hell, he’s seen it. And yet when he’s with you, he’s completely at ease. And you know why that is? Not because you made all the evil go away. It’s because you make him feel safe in spite of it.”

“I’m not sure how that applies.”

“Look, I can’t speak from experience, but I’m pretty confident every parent feels that way. If people waited until they felt completely fearless about having kids, the human race would die out. Providing a one-hundred-percent danger-free environment isn’t possible. But what kids really need is a place where they feel safe and loved, where the dangers don’t seem so big anymore. Niall had to grow up faster than most kids, but all along, you’ve given him that safety...so yeah. That’s why I think you’ll be a good mom.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Your...your hair looks nice like that, by the way.”

“Brighid’s always begging me to wear it down. But it’s not conducive to my work.”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Deflect compliments. Especially about your appearance. You always change the subject or something. Why?”

“...It’s been a long time since I thought of myself as pretty or beautiful. For a while I tried not to be. And after I became a soldier it no longer mattered.”

“Does it have something to do with...well, you know.” He tapped on his wrist.

She scowled, a warning gleaming in her eyes. “I think it’s high time we changed the subject.”

_ Welp, I’ve thoroughly ruined the moment.  _ A tense silence passed as Zeke racked his brain for a suitable subject change. 

“...Do you think Niall will give Raqura what she wants?”

“He can’t. There’s too much riding on the marriage. While the alliance is being formalized, the Senate is too busy to continue trying to replace the Emperor. Formalizing an alliance takes time, and by the time they’ve finished, an heir should be on the way. In times like these, a leadership change would cripple Mor Ardain. We can’t risk a loss of Ardanach sovereignty simply because Uraya feels left out. But more importantly, Niall cannot be seen as acquiescing to Uraya’s will, especially for such unreasonable demands. It would make him and our country look weak.”

“So he’ll just ignore her demands? What about Rex? Jolly bad luck for him, don’t you think?”

“We won’t abandon him. We’ll think of something,” Mòrag sighed.

“Why don’t we just go rescue him?”

“We’re already on thin ice diplomatically. Uraya would interpret that as another threat. It would be one thing if Rex were an Ardainian citizen. Then we’d have a legitimate reason to take him back by force. Uraya wouldn’t like it, of course, but legally, we could.”

Zeke rubbed his chin. “...Hang on. Isn’t Nia technically Gormotti? Like yeah, she doesn’t really live there right now, but she was born there, right? Both the human and Blade parts of her, as I understand it. So she’s an—”

“An Ardainian citizen.” Mòrag finished his sentence. “As is Tora. Niall would have to approve it, but rescuing them would be abiding by the rules of engagement. Good thinking, Zeke.”

“So let’s get planning, then. We both know Niall will approve it if it’s you who’s asking.”

“One step at a time. Niall will want to attempt diplomacy first. And...after what happened today, I’m not leaving his side until he’s back in the safety of the palace. He’s too vulnerable here.”

“I could go on my own. Me, Pandy, Wulfric, some of my other Blades.”

Mòrag paused, considering. “...I can’t risk you dying, either.”

“All of our wedding invitations would go to waste if I snuffed it, right?”

“Th-that’s not what I meant. I don’t want to lose you.”

The tightness in his chest returned. “That just might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Mòrag added hurriedly. “I’m still not sure what my feelings are. But I do know this: when the explosion happened, it made me realize how much I’ve come to rely on you, even in the short time we’ve been engaged. Trusting others doesn’t come easily for me. When I do find someone I can trust, I try to keep them around.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

Before long, the skimmer rumbled into the outpost’s port. Once Niall was awake—and “presentable” again, as he called it—they exited. Cheers erupted at the sight of the young Emperor; most believed he had been killed in the blast. And when the story spread that it was Zeke who saved him, any lingering doubts about the Tantalese prince disappeared as well. As a result, much of the remaining daylight was spent ambling among the soldiers to reassure them and thank them for their service.

Ever watchful, Mòrag saw the fatigue growing in Niall’s eyes again. She tactfully requested leave to make a report with Captain Padraig. Niall, reading her silent invitation, insisted on accompanying her. The soldiers dispersed, and the Emperor’s retinue entered the outpost’s command center. As a military state, Mor Ardain outfitted most of its garrisons with exclusive apartments and amenities for the Emperor. Such luxuries had not yet spread to the newest outposts, however. Padraig seemed woefully aware of this fact, and he rushed about to get food, the best chair, and anything from his personal provisions that he deemed necessary. 

“Captain Padraig,” Niall began, “please do not overwork yourself on my behalf. I do not want for anything.”

“But Your Majesty, your station merits—”

“Captain, there are urgent matters to discuss. Do not prioritize His Majesty’s comfort over his safety. And as it so happens, he will not be staying long. We will be departing for the capitol shortly,” Mòrag explained. 

Niall nodded. “The situation here is precarious, and as such, I will be relying on you to act as our nation’s first line of defense. I trust you will not let us down. As soon as we arrive in Alba Cavanich, the Inquisitor will make arrangements for the bolstering of your forces here. But before we depart, allow us to inform you of our current wishes.”

Between Niall and Mòrag, Captain Padraig found himself assuaged by a host of new duties and policies for the outpost. Foremost among them was the strict order that combat with Uraya was to be avoided at all costs. Evaluations and reviews would also be required for every soldier, along with audits of every piece of equipment and each uniform issued by the Ardainian government. Mòrag intended to repeat those evaluations in every squadron as time allowed. By juxtaposing those audits with their meticulous supply records, perhaps they could find clues about Mor Ardain’s turncoats. The Aramach had to obtain the uniforms from somewhere. Or someone. 

And when she found out who, there’d be hell to pay. 

* * *

Most members of the Aramach were, without question, quick thinkers. They knew how to read circumstances and events well enough that they could jump ship long before a situation turned deadly—or more accurately, before the military police showed up. Cor Baragh also possessed this mental dexterity. In other circumstances, and perhaps with a bit more food in his belly as a child, he might have made it as a prolific engineer or scholar. But prioritizing survival over studies led him to make some unsavory choices. Smart as he was, he’d largely gotten away with them, so joining up with the military hadn’t proven too difficult once he came of age. Of course, even in uniform, his old habits died hard. 

It started out as stealing, and getting away with it proved to be a greater adrenaline rush than battle itself. But soon theft didn’t do it for him—not pilfering goods, anyway. Ardainian women did. 

There’d been dozens of close calls, but for several years he’d managed to hide his criminal activities and keep his military job. And when the time came that he would inevitably be discovered, he deserted, proud that he’d found the precise moment to maximize his personal enjoyment and maintain his physical safety. He survived, living only as his wits and wants dictated. People might call him a disgusting bastard, but he was not stupid. 

He followed his instincts. And right now, his gut told him that maybe the Aramach wasn’t such a safe-haven for him anymore.

“You imbeciles! Months, years of planning, all ruined!” Pachnall roared. His sword twitched, unsheathed in his hand. 

An Aramach captain, still clad in a bloodied Ardainian uniform, quivered as he tried to explain. “Boss, it was an accident, I swear! We were firing on the ship to ground it, like you told us. But somebody had the wrong shells in the cannons.” 

“Was I not clear? I ordered you to  _ capture  _ the stinking brat, not kill him!” 

“We have it on good authority that he survived. That Tantalese prince smuggled him off before the explosion,” the captain added.

Pachnall’s sword flashed. The captain’s body crumpled to the floor, beheaded. Every Aramach member in the vicinity shook, secretly glad they were not in charge of the failed mission. 

The leader lowered his voice to a haunting warning. “You all are fortunate that he did survive, else I’d feed you all to the crows.”

“We won’t fail you again, Boss,” someone murmured, nearly inaudible.

“Like hell you won’t!” Pachnall shouted. “Because of your sorry mushes, our goal is set back for months, years even. All of the Empire will be on high alert. And do you even think that damned Inquisitor will let anyone near the Emperor now? It took thirty of you self-sacrificing as cannon fodder just to draw her off his ship! She’ll hardly leave his side now, and when she does, she’ll have his security unreasonably high for months.”

Pachnall licked his lips before continuing his rampage. “And that’s not the worst of it, either. Our man on the inside will have to lay low indefinitely. He’ll be lucky if they don’t catch him and execute him. That was a sacrifice he was willing to make, but if he dies in vain because you couldn’t capture a whelp in nice clothes, his blood will be on your hands! All of you!”

“...I can live with someone’s death on my conscience, Boss.”

That talk-back was a mistake, but fortunately for the speaker, not a deadly one. Pachnall struck his kneecap with the pommel of his blade, shattering the bone. The man crumpled. 

“Our spy’s funding and protection is the very reason the Aramach exists. If not for him, you’d have already dangled from the hangman’s noose, Harris. So show a little respect.”

“...So how do we fix it, Boss?”

Pachnall shook his head and, much to the relief of everyone watching, sheathed his sword. 

“For starters, we need to move the Artigo out of this area. They’ll be combing this location in days, especially now that both Uraya and Mor Ardain are at each other’s throats. We’ll find a new spot to dock. And then we pray that the distractions of a certain wedding keep suspicions away from our benefactor. And us.”

“Master.”

Despite Pachnall’s terrifying personality, only one member of the Aramach addressed him with such austere formality: Ciaran. The Blade dwarfed his Driver—and anyone, really—in both girth and height. He was so large that most people expected his weapon to be a greataxe or at least a greatlance, not the thin, gleaming rapier-like sword that Pachnall wielded so easily. But Ciaran’s massive stature was the only thing about him that did not appear Ardainian, like his Driver. That and his deep, aubergine eyes, which matched his shimmering core crystal. Even though Ciaran himself said very little and maintained a thick aura of mystery, it was no secret that his deep purple ether, whether directed at an enemy or used to hide the Aramach, was deadly. As such, most of the Aramach avoided him.

“Ciaran,” Pachnall said, some of his anger fading from his face. “Please tell me you have some good news.”

“That remains to be seen. There’s a call set up for you on our secured line. I cannot keep it untapped for long, so I recommend you accept it immediately.”

“Right. Who is it?”

“Your brother, Master.”

* * *

For the next several weeks, Alba Cavanich quivered with excitement, some of it good and some bad. The bad, nervous excitement stemmed from the current relationship with Uraya. Most citizens did not find it particularly worrying; after all, many had never lived in a time when “tensions” with Uraya did not exist. Had it not been for the fact that Uraya captured Rex, the public might have paid the conflict no mind. But since Rex had been kidnapped, the affair became something of a national talking point. News—or lack thereof—regarding his captivity echoed throughout the capitol. And the throne received daily recommendations on how to recover him. 

Niall’s counselors, as expected, refused Uraya’s demands immediately. Uraya, in turn, refused to return Rex and his companions. This standstill left an uneasy excitement filtering through the capitol. That anxiety was tempered by the city’s good excitement: anticipation for the upcoming wedding ceremony. Preparations began in earnest. Decorations appeared everywhere, including fresh flowers, all replaced daily to greet the stream of guests and foreign dignitaries that would attend. The Fire Dragons arrived in Mor Ardain with exotic ingredients and cookware in tow. Hardhaigh’s symphony orchestra resumed rehearsals for the first time since arriving at Elysium. 

Even if Niall had endorsed a rescue mission in Urayan territory, Mòrag would have been hard-pressed to execute one herself. Every day, countless decisions confronted her: some critical, some seemingly frivolous. She never predicted that in the span of a single morning, she would draft a letter of dismissal to a military supply master, finalize a banquet menu, select four new Drivers and Blades for Niall’s personal guard (and convince Aegaeon that those guards’ appointments were a precaution, not an affront to the Blade’s skill or loyalty to protect the Emperor), and pick which napkins and silverware she preferred. When possible, she deferred most of the decisions about the wedding to Brighid; she had far more pressing matters to attend to. And the thought of sampling icings while Rex, Pyra, and the others waited in an Urayan holding cell made her sick to her stomach. 

But for several weeks, Niall stubbornly attempted to negotiate with Uraya, and Mòrag juggled the contrasting responsibilities of her stations as imperial princess and Inquisitor. It left her with precious few moments to spare. The few free evenings she did have were spent in the gardens with Zeke. Typically, Mòrag said little, focusing on the soothing feeling of earth between her fingers or the calm rhythm of pulling weeds and planting seeds. Her focus came in handy, though, as Zeke often told stories complete with dramatic gestures (and very little garden work): how he escaped a den of one hundred Ignas, his three-day stint as a rookie in the Urayan military, the mass he interrupted while searching for Turters at the Praetorium—the list was endless, and each tale was funnier and unluckier than the last. 

If not for a nagging feeling of guilt over Rex’s delayed rescue, the pair of royals might have called those evenings perfectly peaceful. Neither was much of a gardener—true to his unlucky nature, Zeke once poured on weed killer instead of water, killing much of the flower bed. But two plants survived: a single dawn hydrangea bush and one moon flower plant. Little buds soon peeked out from among the leaves. The first flowers would bloom by the wedding day. 

Roughly a week before the big event, Hardhaigh Palace began to hum like an anthill. People scurried about at all hours, working relentlessly. Historically, Mor Ardain’s wedding ceremonies had always been stately, opulent affairs; emperors spared no expense. And Niall never explicitly told his staff how much gold and resources to dedicate to preparations for the ceremony. Most palace workers interpreted that silence as license to pour as much into it as they desired. And the capitol’s master crafters, chefs, musicians, tailors, and artisans all utilized that opportunity to unleash their most ornate, inspired projects. 

The seamstresses responsible for Mòrag’s wedding dress were no exception; they managed to schedule her final dress fitting far sooner than she expected.

She sat at her desk, trying—and failing—to sift through piles of paperwork while the three seamstresses set up their supplies in her dressing room. Like so many staff members in the palace, they prattled on about the coming festivities. It was not a conversation she intended to join. Thankfully, Brighid chatted with them politely while they worked. 

A knock sounded at the door.  _ Great, another distraction.  _

“Brighid, whoever that is, please send them away.”

The dull murmur of conversation told her that Brighid was attempting to abide by her request; the continued murmur, however, showed that she had little success. Mòrag sighed and went to the door.

“Hey, Mòrag.” 

“Zeke. What is it?” Mòrag asked as Brighid returned to the other room. Of all the interruptions she could experience, at least it was him. If she received another dumb question about wedding candles, she might just scream.

“I was just with Niall. He finally gave us the go-ahead to sneak into Uraya and rescue Rex and the others.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yeah. I was beginning to worry that our friends wouldn’t be able to come to the wedding. So anyway, I thought maybe we could plan out the rescue mission over lunch?”

“Can it wait until dinner? I’m a little busy right now,” Mòrag sighed, not admitting that she would much rather go with him instead.

“I guess. What’s going on?”

Mòrag rolled her eyes. “Edina is here for the last dress fitting.”

“Sounds fun. Can I join?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

Zeke smirked. “Let me guess: Mor Ardain has a superstition that seeing the bride’s dress before the big day gives scary bad luck, right?”

“Precisely,” Mòrag said. A feeble laugh slipped out. “Although I suppose marrying you, I’m already doomed to bad luck, so I’m not entirely sure what difference it makes.”

Zeke laughed. “Brighid would probably chase me out anyway. So I’ll just wait for the big day. I’m sure it’ll look great.”

“There’s only a week to go.” Mòrag shook her head. A week. Where had the time gone?

“All of the chaos with Uraya made it go by really fast, eh? Honestly, I’m starting to get nervous.”

Mòrag nodded. She could hardly believe what she said next. Perhaps it was the stress of the week, or the looming deadline of the ceremony itself. Or maybe she felt guilty that Zeke had saved Niall and she’d hardly expressed her gratitude properly. Or was it the look in his eye when he admitted that he, too, was nervous? Or that he had managed to make her laugh in spite of her stress? And then there was his smile when he laughed—had it always looked so warm? 

Regardless of the reason, the sentence slipped out before she could stop it:

“You know, we never did practice that kiss for the wedding.”

Her cheeks burned the instant the word “kiss” rolled off her tongue. And judging by Zeke’s expression, he was equally shocked that she’d said it. 

“I guess we are running out of practice time,” Zeke replied. “D-do you want to—”

Her lips interrupted him. Her own aggressiveness startled her; it was not her intention to initiate the contact. And yet she didn’t know which was worse: the awkwardness of talking about kissing or the actual kissing. She chose the latter. 

It was sloppy and awkward...but not unpleasant. Warmth tickled in the base of her throat. But she pulled away as quickly as she began, the brazenness of her own actions sinking in. 

_ What am I doing? Architect, this—I’m—he’s— _

“What’s that scowl for? Is kissing me that bad?”

“No,” she replied. Her voice was a pathetic-sounding whisper. She looked away. “I-I just don’t understand, um, why I want to do that again.”

Zeke gently pulled on her chin so she was facing him again. His lips curled into a small smile. “Maybe I can help you figure that out.”

His lips found hers again, and this time, neither was in a hurry to pull away. The warm tickle in her throat soon spread to the rest of her body.  _ You can’t kiss him. You don’t deserve him,  _ the old voice nagged at the back of her mind. But for the first time, those taunts were overpowered by the pleasant feeling of his lips against hers, of his hand cupped against the back of her neck. She didn’t understand the sensation, but she knew she wanted more of it. 

A little whimper escaped her throat when Zeke finally broke the kiss. 

“I gotta breathe, Flames.” His laugh was quieter, higher than usual. 

The warmth from the embrace quickly transformed into the heat of embarrassment. “S-sorry. I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” she murmured.

“Nah, that was, uh, nice,” Zeke replied, stroking her cheek. “We might wanna tone it down a touch for  _ the  _ kiss during the wedding, though. People might talk, you know?”

“Lady Mòrag, we’re ready for—oh.”

Brighid said nothing more, but her presence alone prompted Zeke to make a quick exit. After confirming that he’d see her for dinner, he scurried out the door. Once he was gone, the Blade’s eyebrows shot up in an unvoiced, amused question. 

“Not a word, Brighid,” Mòrag hissed. “Just, ah, finish sealing some of that paperwork while I’m in there. Please.”

Her Blade nodded, but the knowing smile didn’t fade. Mòrag took a deep breath and walked into the dressing room, half praying that she wasn’t still blushing. Brighid’s reactions she could deal with. But a team of giddy, wedding-crazed seamstresses? She couldn’t bear the thought. 

_ Calm down, Mòrag. It was just a kiss,  _ she told herself, trying to reassemble the passive, unreadable expression she wore for work. Yes, work. Responsibility. Even if kissing Zeke was nicer than expected, marrying him was still her job, her duty to Niall and Mor Ardain. That thought brought her back to the situation at hand: her dress for the wedding. 

And that gown seemed to have materialized before her instantly. Wasn’t it just a week or two ago that they’d measured her, pestered her with countless questions about the design? And yet here it was, mostly complete, despite the intricacies of its construction. 

The head seamstress, Edina, beamed while Mòrag gawked at it. “My masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Shall we head behind the screen and try it on, dear? I want to see if there are any last-minute adjustments to make.”

Mòrag nodded, but it would have made little difference if she did not respond at all; the seamstresses all pulled her to the changing area and set to work. Mòrag hated letting other people dress her; to her, it was one of the many excesses certain nobles and royals indulged in. But today, she was grateful for it. A few sections of the gown were still held in place by pins, and if she attempted to put it on without help, she would have pricked herself more than once. 

A collective gasp echoed from the seamstresses when they stepped back to admire their work. And when Mòrag saw herself in the mirror, she understood why. 

Every detail boasted masterful workmanship, from the flattering cut and understated train to the elegant, classic sweetheart neckline and every pure white stitch in between. Edina had, at Mòrag’s request, ensured that long, lace-embroidered sleeves covered her arms. The master seamstress also pulled elements from the Peatopaz Reserve gown Mòrag wore at her birthday gala several weeks earlier; no doubt Edina wanted to stick it to her rival designer by “improving” on her designs. Most striking was the dress’s same scooping back—a cut that was now all the rage among the Ardainian nobility—but rather than leaving her skin open to the air, Edina chose to frame it with a sheer layer of ornate lace. 

Mòrag had never seen anything quite like that lace. At first glance, the white threading resembled the leaves and petals of traditional lace. But a closer look revealed thousands of tiny tongues of colorless flame, swirling about on the fabric in an intricate dance. No two fires looked exactly the same, and yet they all converged into a cohesive unit. The end result was a striking yet subtle tribute to the Empire’s Flamebringer. 

“Cora, go fetch Lady Brighid from the other room,” Edina ordered. “Well, Lady Mòrag, what do you think?”

Mòrag truly did not know what to say. In truth, the dress was lovely. She never anticipated liking it. But something about wearing it now filled her with a complicated mess of emotions—anticipation, fear, nervousness, loyalty, regret, and perhaps now, a twinge of hope. But how could she possibly verbalize that, much less to the craftswoman? 

Fortunately, Brighid’s entry provided Mòrag an excuse not to answer. Her Blade, too, kept silent for a moment, gazing at her Driver with sparkling purple eyes. The corner of her mouth curved into a half-smile at the sight of the flame-lace encrusting Mòrag’s sleeves. After she had walked a full circle and surveyed the entire dress, Brighid stopped and clasped Mòrag’s hands in hers.

“That’s my beautiful Driver,” Brighid whispered. “If only the late Emperor could see you now.”

_ If he were still alive, I wouldn’t be wearing this,  _ Mòrag thought. But she kept it to herself. “Please don’t start crying on me, Brighid.”

The Blade shook her head, smiling. “Of course not.” She turned to the seamstresses. “Edina, you are a true paragon of your craft. Splendid, divine work.”

The woman bowed. “I’m moved, Lady Brighid. The honor was all mine.”

“Now, if you don’t mind my asking, when you designed the gown, what did you have in mind for Lady Mòrag’s hair and veil?”

“I assumed she would want to wear her usual style, so for the veil, I’d reco—”

“I think I’d like to wear my hair down, actually,” Mòrag interrupted. 

Every woman in the room raised an eyebrow, demanding an explanation.

Mòrag couldn’t meet their gazes. “H-he likes it that way.”

“Very well,” Brighid replied. The flaming tips of her hair flickered. “Then we’ll keep it simple. Perhaps a few flowers or a simple decorative pin.”

Edina fidgeted. “Lady Mòrag, if I may, you haven’t said much. Is the dress not to your liking? Do you need a spot altered?”

“It’s lovely. You’ve exceeded my expectations, Edina. I just…”

She stared at the reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her—she was beautiful. But was she wearing lace or chains? 

“Nervous? Well, my lady, who wouldn’t be? It’s your big day—lots of changes on the horizon.”

“Please give us a moment, Edina,” Brighid said, keeping her voice as polite as possible. Only when they were alone did the Blade speak again. “What’s wrong?”

“...I’m not sure I can do this.” She gestured to the gown, twiddling a section of lace in her fingers.

“You’ve never been one to back down from a fight before, Mòrag.”

“This isn’t a fight. Fights end. This marriage won’t. For the sake of Mor Ardain, it can’t.”

“...You’re feeling anxious because you haven’t quite sorted out your feelings for Zeke.”

Leave it to Brighid to cut directly to the core of her scrambled emotions. “Is it that obvious?”

“Mòrag, you’re still as pink as a strawberry. Most people don’t feel  _ that  _ embarrassed about kissing their fiancé.”

“...You know better than anyone that I never really  _ wanted  _ to marry. I’ve always planned on doing so out of duty. But if I’m honest with myself, Zeke...he will be a better partner than I expected from an arranged marriage. He, well, he sympathizes with my past. He’s far kinder than I expected. He makes me laugh. And for all his theatrics, he truly cares for his people.”

“Sounds to me as though you like him after all. Perhaps just a little.”

Mòrag sighed. “That's the problem. I don’t  _ understand _ how I feel about him. Am I a little fonder of him than I was at the gala? Yes. But are those feelings really mine? Or am I just tricking myself into feeling this way to protect myself, to make it easier to do my duty? I’m scared that I’m fabricating these emotions, and one day, I’ll wake up and feel complete indifference towards him, or worse, hate him. Architect, how does anyone make an arranged marriage work?”

Brighid paused. “I have something I’ve been meaning to show you. Give me a moment.”

Brighid walked into the adjoining room and sifted through the piles of her belongings. Normally, both she and Mòrag maintained a clean, orderly living space. But over the past several weeks, they began the process of altering their living arrangements. Brighid’s belongings had been thoroughly upended—Mòrag’s remained mostly intact, with a few pieces moved to accommodate minor renovations. Thankfully, Brighid had left the journal on top of an accessible stack, despite not writing in it for several days. 

She leafed through the pages and found the entry easily. The spine practically fell open to the desired page. Just how many times had she herself read this section in the last week? She returned to Mòrag’s side and set the book in her hands.

“Your journal? Brighid, I can’t intrude—”

“Just this once, I’ll make an exception,” Brighid replied.

Brighid shared everything with her Driver. Well, nearly everything. Her journal was one thing she guarded closely. Judging by her entries, Brighid’s former selves shared much of her personality: protective, loyal, calm, courteous—excluding her earliest interactions with Mythra during her resonance with Hugo—and terrifying when angered. Her relationship with each Driver was usually the same, too, with her public interactions being guarded and professional and her private ones unveiling her doting, almost motherly behaviors towards her partners. Reading her old journal entries, Brighid felt that she was intruding, eavesdropping on a relationship that wasn’t quite her own. The thought of letting anyone else read them, even Mòrag, seemed wrong.

Mòrag had snooped once during the earliest days of their resonance. The passage she read was innocent enough, but Brighid overreacted. A twang of guilt still struck her for how she’d scolded her for intruding on someone else’s privacy; Brighid had been too harsh on her, even though she was just a girl at the time. But Mòrag never touched so much as the journal’s cover again. 

And now, of course, there were more recent entries that she truly did not want Mòrag to see. This entry, however, was harmless, over a dozen pages ahead of the first Mòrag-era entry.

Mòrag frowned when she first looked at it. “This is your handwriting? But it can’t be. Your script looks—”

“A lot like yours, or at least it does today,” Brighid smiled. “As you know, Drivers influence their Blades a lot during resonance. It seems that my handwriting is one aspect of myself that changes. Penmanship was not a priority with some of my male Drivers. Go on, read it.”

_ Amathatober 13, 4032 _

_ His Majesty is overjoyed today; his son Lord Eandraig has blessed him with his first grandchild, a healthy baby girl. At last, the royal family has another generation of heirs.  _

_ When His Highness Lord Eandraig married, I almost pitied him. He had never met Lady Morgan, and yet the Empire demanded that he marry for a strategic alliance. They married sight unseen. Oh, how they fought and bickered during those first few months. But over time, they resolved their differences and learned to love each other. They  _ **_chose_ ** _ to.  _

_ That love was obvious on their faces when they first set eyes on their daughter today. They have chosen to call her Mòrag. The name suits her; she’s beautiful. I can already see the strength in her eyes. I wonder if, someday after I return to my core, this infant princess will become my Driver.  _

_ I already feel the urge to protect her. But is that because I am her grandfather’s Blade, and my Driver would protect her, too? Or is it more than that? Will we share resonance? If our futures connect, then I will not dissent. I believe a child borne from such unlikely yet fierce love would make a fine Driver. _

Mòrag said nothing for a minute, processing what she read. “My parents...they were forced to marry, too? But I always thought—when my mother died in childbirth, Father was heartbroken. They always seemed blissfully in love.”

“Because they were. Just not at first.”

“...Thank you for showing me this.”

“I have always admired your dedication to Mor Ardain, Mòrag. Clearly, your father instilled that in you. And I’m praying that someday, I can write another entry like this, but about you.”

“Somehow, you knew that I’d be your Driver.”

“I’ve thought about that a lot, actually,” Brighid replied. “Do you remember when Azurda asked Rex if he was ready to be Pyra’s ‘True Driver?’”

“Just before we found the third sword. I remember.”

“I’ve often wondered if that’s a phenomenon limited to Pyra. But what if every Blade is destined to have one True Driver over the years? One whose resonance is more powerful, deeper, more meaningful and fulfilling than any other Driver’s,” Brighid began. “Take Jin and Lora, for example. My writings from that lifetime are incomplete, but I do know that they were truly inseparable, so deeply that he couldn’t fathom losing her. Existing without her drove him mad. There’s Pandoria and Zeke, too. Their relationship is similar; they keep each other alive. And while we can hope Pandoria’s core will return to its normal state after Zeke dies, the greater likelihood is that he’ll be her last Driver. And Aegaeon, well, he’s never been very talkative, but judging by my journals, he was the most outgoing he ever was with Emperor Hugo. I’m sure there are others, too.”

“And you think I’m your ‘True Driver,’ is that it?”

“Perhaps that’s arrogant of me to say, but yes. I didn’t write much as your grandfather’s Blade. Your birth must have had quite the profound effect on me if I recorded it in my journal. Somehow I could sense that our fates would intertwine...And today, if I had to give up part of my core to keep you alive, I would.” 

Mòrag smiled and handed the journal back to her Blade. “I hope it never comes to that. There are still pages in that journal for you to fill. And I find it comforting to know that even after I’m gone, you’ll still be here, protecting my country and my children, even if you don’t remember me.”

Brighid took back the book and clasped it shut. “Just promise me one thing, Lady Mòrag.”

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you won’t let Zeke be in charge of naming your children. I  _ refuse  _ to resonate with someone named Zekenator Junior.”

Mòrag let out a hearty, unrestrained laugh. Brighid’s core tickled with warmth at the sound of it. Her Driver had not laughed like that in a long time. Brighid still disliked the thought of sharing Mòrag with anyone. But if Zeke could bring out more of those merry, almost child-like fits of laughter, then maybe it would be worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Morag, when it comes to understanding and expressing (okay, more like failing to express) feelings, you and I are very much the same kind of dorks. Only took us ~44,000 words to get here. 
> 
> This chapter ended up being much longer than I anticipated, but several scenes needed to occur in order to set up the wedding chapter effectively. Yes, it's fast approaching. One or two more chapters, then we're there. (And maybe then I can get rid of all the wedding ads I've gotten thanks to Pinterest's cookies). 
> 
> Rex and the gang finally return next chapter. Stay tuned!


	10. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRYING TO DESCRIBE HOW ETHER-BASED COMBAT WORKS IS LIKE TRYING TO DESCRIBE WHAT WATER FEELS LIKE WITHOUT USING THE WORD WET. ugh.
> 
> Betcha didn't expect that note when you opened this chapter, did ya? XD. I guess I'm in a weird mood. I did a little experimenting with writing how Drivers fight/use ether in this, and it was more challenging than I expected. Anyway, enjoy!

“Not gonna lie, I prefer your uniform,” Zeke said. 

“Agreed.” Mòrag frowned at her own attire: olive green pants, a beige blouse, simple matching leather boots, all topped with extraneous pieces of flimsy leather armor. Her hat had been replaced by a high ponytail, and where her whipsword sheaths ought to have been was a simple scabbard for a chroma katana. She looked casual and haphazard, nothing like her usual self. Which was precisely the point.

Zeke, dressed similarly, looked a bit more himself, except he’d traded his usual weapon for a greataxe. Together, he and Mòrag could easily have been mistaken for common mercenaries—at first glance, anyway. All traces of Mor Ardain and Tantal had been thoroughly removed from their outward appearances. Even their airship was unaffiliated with any country, as they borrowed it from a Nopon merchant (it was concerningly rickety, but most Nopon ships were these days). In fact, the only things on the entire vessel that could be visually identified as Ardainian or Tantalese were Brighid and Pandoria themselves. 

Two other Blades had joined them for the mission: Yuzu and Sazami. Just to be cautious, Mòrag and Zeke resonated with the common Blades aboard the ship. All of their previous Blades were on public record; doubtless Uraya would be on the lookout for them. So what better way to avoid detection than by using completely new Blades?

Mòrag swallowed back a feeling of guilt whenever she resonated with a common Blade. Something about it just felt unfair, both to Brighid and the new Blade. Aside from the current mission, she probably wouldn’t call on Yuzu again. And it was for no fault of her own; Yuzu was probably a half-decent Blade. Mòrag had breathed a sigh of relief when a chroma katana manifested from the core. At least it was a weapon type she was comfortable with. But Yuzu’s element...lightning was Zeke’s thing. Mòrag had never even handled the element before. The opposing elements of Aegaeon and Brighid were one thing; she understood their mirrored strengths and weaknesses perfectly. But the tingling, crackling electricity that coursed through Yuzu’s sword made her feel like a human lightning rod. 

Zeke had lucked out with Sazami, who brandished a lightning-based greataxe. But even he probably wouldn’t use the new Blade much after this mission. 

_ The Garfont Mercenaries could probably use their help once we’re done,  _ Mòrag thought. 

It was a poor substitution for the day-in, day-out companionship of a normal Driver and Blade, though. And with any other Drivers, Yuzu and Sazami might have gotten just that. Perhaps somewhere, there was a little boy or girl with potential who could have used their companionship. But now that opportunity was gone, stolen by her own royal privilege. Maybe it was time to redistribute some of the reserve core crystals at the palace. She and Niall would never be able to resonate with them all…

Brighid and Pandoria, for their part, had not protested the new companions—though Pandoria had a laugh at Mòrag’s expense when both Blades emerged electric. After all, the two extra Blades freed Brighid and Pandoria up to use their own weapons. Although they’d be somewhat weakened without their Drivers, their independence was a critical component of their strategy.

The plan was simple: their ship would fly them within a titanped or so of the Urayan base, where they would disembark and make camp. Under cover of darkness, Zeke, Mòrag, Yuzu, and Sazami would sneak around to the back of the base where the prisoners were being held. Together, they would infiltrate the base and get Rex and the others out of Uraya’s ether-blocking cell. Mòrag wasn’t too confident about their ability to remain undetected, though, since Zeke was synonymous with misfortune. To counteract that poor luck, Brighid and Pandoria would move to the forests just north of the base, wreaking havoc of their own, and ideally, giving the impression that the illustrious Flamebringer and the notorious Thunderbolt Zeke were there. That ought to reduce the number of soldiers within the base significantly. 

Inevitably, things did not go according to plan. 

Mòrag thought she had an intimate knowledge of katana-type Blades; naturally, she assumed it would be much like fighting with Aegaeon. She controlled the water Blade’s power with relative ease. Using the katana’s sheath as a sort of spigot or faucet, she could regulate the ether intensity of each strike by sheathing and unsheathing her weapon as the situation demanded. Water was a smooth, predictable element. Electricity, like Zeke himself, was not as predictable—a fact Mòrag failed to account for.

“Now, what exactly am I working with here?” Mòrag asked aloud, drawing the katana from its sheath.

She intended to simply hold it and get a feel for Yuzu’s power levels by gauging what Arts she had in her arsenal. She did not intend to unleash any. But just as Aegaeon’s sheath acted as a control mechanism for his ether, so did Yuzu’s. And when Mòrag pulled the weapon out, inept as she was with electricity, she lost that control. 

Four different shafts of lightning shot out from the weapon. Two buried themselves harmlessly into the wood of the ship’s hull. One hit Pandoria, and she giggled as if someone tickled her. The fourth, however, struck one of the ether circuit lines running throughout the airship. There was a humming surge of energy, building in intensity, until it was punctuated by a single snap. The lights flickered, then went out. 

“What’s happening?”

Brighid rushed into the cockpit, which they’d left unattended on autopilot to make full use of their travel time to plan. She returned, concern etched in her face.

“The titan’s ether control unit is out of commission.”

“Mòrag fried it?” Zeke asked, to which Brighid gave a nod.

“A-and what does that mean?”

Mòrag wished the floor would drop out from under her. “It means that we no longer have control over this titan. He’s about to go flying wherever he wants.”

“...And thanks to that shock you just gave him, he’s probably got a nasty burst of nervous energy that’s about to unleash,” Yuzu added. 

“Crap.”

As if on cue, the airship lurched, plunging downwards. Its passengers were tossed to the floor. A sickening crunch echoed from the left side of the ship. Had they just collided with the treeline? Or worse? One more hit like that, and the already flimsy passenger compartment, attached to the Titan’s underbelly, would be driftwood. 

Another crackle of splitting wood. The fragile airship disintegrated entirely.

Dizziness. So much spinning. It was worse than the plunge after evacuating the World Tree. At least then she’d been able to right herself, grab hold of Brighid, and get her bearings. But now, there was nothing but air and tree branches in every direction. Then there was the ground, the sky. But which was she moving towards? And why was the wind screaming in her ears? How high were they? Nothing made sense except the empty feeling in her stomach, as if half of her body had already traveled far ahead of her and she was struggling to catch up. No, there was Zeke, within arm’s reach. He looked awfully calm—perhaps falling off a cliff several times made the sensation less frightening for him. He made eye contact, read her panic, and reached out, struggling against the raging air. Then his hand clamped on her wrist. 

As they continued to fall, Zeke wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest. The world went quiet as she braced herself for the impact, but she never really felt it. Zeke maneuvered their descent so his back hit first, taking the brunt of the force.

She sat up, but didn’t rise. Just how far had they fallen? The drop felt like hours, but they’d survived. So it must have been mere seconds. Still, a drop from that height could do some serious damage. And Zeke had taken the full weight of the fall. She finally looked back down at him, scared for what she might find. His expression was dazed, and he took shallow breaths. Architect, had he injured himself in order to protect her? She unbuttoned his shirt to look for wounds. Her fingers shook. If he had gotten wounded on her account, and for her own stupid mistake, no less…

“Wow, Mòrag. And here I thought you wanted to wait until our wedding night,” Zeke joked, his dazzled expression fading.

Only then did she realize that she was effectively straddling him. Her cheeks burned at the suggestive position. “I-I feared you were hurt. Just checking for wounds.”

“I might have broken my pelvis. You should check.”

“Y-you’re not even injured, are you?”

He grinned. “Nope. But I am enjoying you undressing me. Feel free to continue.”

Now her whole body burned. “Please stop flirting with me.”

“We’re getting married next week. I think I’m allowed to flirt a little.”

“Not two seconds after we nearly died! And what the hell was that, protecting me? I don’t need—”

He cut her lecture short by leaning up and planting a kiss on her lips. All of her anger, her panic melted at the touch, replaced by a strange sense of calm. Unlike their previous kisses, this felt soothing, reassuring. Yes. They were okay.

“We leave you two unattended for two minutes, and you’re already going at it? Sheesh.” Pandoria said, rising from where she’d fallen a dozen feet away or so.

Mòrag shot to her feet. “This is not what it looks like.”

“The rest of us can come back later.”

Mòrag dusted off her disguise and helped Zeke to his feet. “That will not be necessary. Is everyone all right?”

Naturally, the Blades were unscathed, and any injuries that they might have incurred had already healed. They found or replaced their weapons easily, too, but Yuzu appeared hesitant to put her katana back in her Driver’s hands. Zeke was sore and a little winded, but no permanent damage had been done. The real damage was to their ship and their provisions; a few of their supplies lay strewn about. Unfortunately, most of the food rations were reduced to unsalvageable crumbs. They would need to hunt or gather provisions. Or swipe them from Uraya’s base on the way out. 

But first came the matter of how to get there with no airship.

“We’ll go on foot. Obviously,” Zeke said firmly. “We’ve come this far. I’m not about to leave Rex behind now.”

“But how much further is it?”

Sazami spoke up. “When I last looked at our course, we were traveling at about twenty-two titanpeds per hour with just over twenty-five to go. Judging by how much time has passed, I’d wager that we’re within 5 or 6 titanpeds, give or take.”

“Ok. Prince, you gotta stop passing on your stupid math skills to other Blades. It’s making me look bad,” Pandoria whined. 

Zeke flashed a toothy grin. “Lucky for us, Mòrag had the good sense to not destroy our boat until  _ after  _ we’d gotten within walking distance. Jolly good of her.”

If only she had her hat right now, she could hide her eyes under its metal brim. Or throw it at Zeke. Anything to feel less culpable. “Not for the last time do I apologize.”

“Maybe Zeke stores his bad luck in his lips, and he rubs it off on you with every smooch?” Pandoria suggested.

Even Brighid laughed at that—until her Driver’s scowl cut it short. “If that’s the case, then the Empire is doomed...But on a more serious note, I’m beginning to doubt the efficacy of our current plan. I for one am uncomfortable separating from Lady Mòrag if she does not feel comfortable using her weapon.”

“One misfire doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to fight, Brighid,” Mòrag spat. Her tone betrayed more frustration than she intended. 

“And relax,” Zeke added, “I’ll give her some pointers. She’ll catch on quick, I’m sure.”

“Let’s assume we proceed with the current plan. How does not having an airship affect the mission?”

Mòrag sighed. “The beginning half should be relatively unaffected, provided we can cover the distance within two hours or so. There’s a lot of daylight left, and we can’t proceed with the rescue without the cover of darkness. It’s the return journey that’s the real problem.”

“True. Crossing that much Urayan territory on foot would be perilous in itself. It’s nearly four days’ march. And it would be even worse with fourteen of us. Our group isn’t exactly known for blending in,” Brighid explained. “And with the wedding next week, we haven’t much time to spare.”

“Awkward moment when you miss your own wedding,” Zeke muttered.

“If it comes to that, Rex can just officiate your ceremony. The Ardainians think he’s like a god anyway,” Pandoria giggled. “And then you can just honeymoon in Uraya.”

“Cut it out, Pandy.”

Mòrag cleared her throat. “Crossing Uraya on foot is a risk we’ll have to take. Zeke’s right. We can’t turn back now. Uraya has held Rex long enough...Are we all agreed?”

Her query was met by five nods, and within the hour, they had resumed their journey. It was not a pleasant one. Uraya favored preservation of their land’s natural ecosystem—an admirable endeavor except for when one needed to cross rugged terrain. The trees here wound their roots into thick knots, making it hard to maintain a steady footing. Underbrush had to be cut through or avoided entirely. And then there was the climate; this portion of Uraya stood deep inland, far from the almost tropical wind drifts of Elysium’s shores. That location, paired with the subtle passage into late autumn and lack of sunlight, made for a chilly afternoon.

Despite those challenges, the group made it to their intended destination within a few hours: a great saffronia tree about a titanped away from the walls of the Urayan base. That became, for lack of a better term, their base camp for the mission. If all went well, they’d rendezvous here after rescuing their friends. After a quick meal salvaged from the local wildlife, Brighid and Pandoria headed off to make their own camp to the north. Once night fell, they would draw the Urayan’s attention away. 

With Brighid and Pandoria gone, Zeke gave Mòrag her promised “pointers” on handling the electric Blade she now wielded. His initial explanation of “Don’t try to control the ether; just let it do what it wants” proved less than helpful. Wasn’t the whole point to channel Yuzu’s ether through each Art? Didn’t that require control, finesse?

“You can’t be so straitlaced with lightning, Mòrag. Look. Hold onto my weapon. I’m gonna unleash an Art. You focus on the etherflow through the greataxe, see what it feels like.”

That single Art told her more about his fighting style than any spar they had. Sure, she observed his Arts hundreds, maybe thousands of times during their journey. But never before had she actually  _ felt  _ how he handled the ether coursing through his weapon. She had always willfully manipulated her ether, as if she could physically force it through a funnel to her target. But Zeke acted as though the ether had a will of its own, like sparks bouncing from one conductor to another. Zeke didn’t force the ether to do his will; he followed  _ its _ lead, locked on  _ its _ target. The style felt wild, powerful, inexplicable. 

“...I think I’m beginning to understand why your fighting style is so chaotic,” Mòrag said. 

“Snazzy as hell, right?” he grinned. “Now go on, give it a try with yours.”

Mòrag took a deep breath and drew the katana again. Her fingers tingled as she did. It felt so foreign to fight this way. But this time, sparks flew in a relatively controlled direction. Zeke nodded approvingly, then urged her to try a few more. Each strike was easier than the last; her Driver instincts took over, and she learned to adapt to the ever-changing ether flow without too much difficulty—though she wouldn’t be claiming a thunder-related moniker anytime soon, either.

“A bit sloppy, but it’ll do for now,” Zeke said at last. “We don’t want to wear ourselves out before the rescue. In fact, we should get some rest.”

“We’re in enemy territory. Someone should keep watch.”

Yuzu and Sazami volunteered, and Zeke gave a grateful nod before plopping down with his back against the saffronia. Mòrag looked for a comfortable place of her own. Not as though any place here would be truly comfortable without a fire. But a campfire was a luxury they had to forego for now. The smoke would give them away to Uraya for sure. She shivered. Better to be chilly and avoid detection than be spotted and further exacerbate Ardainian-Urayan tensions.

“You cold?” Zeke asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Your teeth are chattering. I can hear it from here.”

“I always get a little cold when Brighid isn’t nearby. I guess I’ve become accustomed to the heat she generates.”

“I won’t tell her you use her as a space heater,” Zeke joked, drawing a smirk from his fiancée. “Come here and sit by me...Look, we both need to be on top of our game tonight. We’ll rest better if we’re warmer.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Mòrag. We slept side by side to keep warm when we got separated from the others in Morytha, right? Don’t act like it’s suddenly weird because we’re getting married.”

_ I didn’t have any feelings for you then. Not even conflicted, messy ones,  _ she thought. But he was right—she was being silly. So she relented and took a seat beside him. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer. His hand suspended awkwardly in the air, as if he was nervous to let it rest against her shoulder. It was unlike him to be shy; how could he shift so quickly from his confident teasing to hesitating? 

She rested her head on his shoulder as she shifted her weight to the side, soaking in more of his warmth—for someone who grew up in a cold climate, he was surprisingly cozy. Then, with her own hesitancy, she let her hand fall to his belly. His breath hitched in surprise at the touch, but after one long exhale, the tension seemed to melt from his body. He finally let his hand rest on her shoulder, his thumb brushing against her sleeve. 

True to form, Zeke had left the shirt to his disguise unbuttoned. But without the thick mass of belts that comprised his typical attire, his entire torso was exposed to the air.  _ So much for being cold,  _ she thought. But his skin felt warm beneath her fingers as she mindlessly traced the indentation of one of his upper abs. 

_ Now you’re cuddling with him? Don’t pretend he’s yours, you disgusting little bitch. Once he finds out the truth—and he  _ **_will_ ** _ —he’ll realize what a poison you are. Kissing him, touching him—you’re just leading him on. How can you live with yourself, letting him think you give a damn about him? _

_ I do care about him, at least a little.  _

_ Liar. All you care about is yourself. You only want him to give you a child so you can protect this pathetic, phony world you’ve fabricated to cover for your lies. _

_ I think...I think I could be happy with him. I can learn to love him. _

_ In your dreams, hypocrite.  _

_ Please go away. I just want to be happy.  _

_ You don’t deserve to. And you know it.  _

It had been a long time since she’d actually talked to the cutting, harsh voice. Fighting it always left her feeling more depressed and defeated than before it spoke. Over the years, she learned to bury it, ignore it, but it always came back. Only now did she realize how badly she wanted it to leave.

“You don’t have to stop,” Zeke murmured. “Feels nice.”

The voice faded into her subconscious as he spoke, but the sensation of guilt lingered. Had he not prompted her to continue, she would have kept still. Was it really so wrong, if he found comfort in it? Perhaps it was, but...She exhaled and traced the indentation again, watching the tiny muscle twitches her touches left behind. Around that upper ab once more, then the one beside it, followed by the next two, back up, back down in a smooth, soothing rhythm. His breathing slowed into a constant, steady inhale-exhale as he relaxed. And somehow, knowing that he was at ease made her breath do the same. 

He kissed her head gently, then rested his own against hers, saying nothing. Hours ticked by. Neither of them slept—it was too early in the evening for that—but they passed several hours in tranquil silence. Dusk fell, revealing the pale glow of their Blades keeping watch. Birdsong faded and was replaced with the chirrup of insects. A few nocturnal creatures emerged to hunt. 

At last, the sound of electricity crackling in the distance.

“That’ll be Pandoria,” Mòrag said, almost not wanting to move. Much longer and she might have nodded off for a nap. 

“That’s our cue, right?”

She nodded, rising to her feet. As their Blades took the cue that it was time to move out, she stretched and said a silent prayer that everything else would run smoothly. The less Urayan blood they spilled, the better. 

Trekking to the wall of the Urayan base in the dim light proved much harder than traversing the same terrain in the daylight. No stars shone, and the moon hid behind thick clouds. Mòrag hoped that those clouds held no rain; Brighid was already weakened enough fighting on her own. A downpour would leave her vulnerable. And as powerful as Pandoria was, Mòrag had little knowledge of how well the Blade fought alone. Could she even handle Zeke’s massive greatsword for an extended period? The weapon was almost as tall as she was. Currently, however, the Blades seemed to be quite all right on their own. Shouts already echoed from within the base, and flashes of blue lightning and flames tore through the darkness. 

At last, they reached the edge of the base. Unlike Mor Ardain, who had spent most of the previous year rebuilding their cities and learning how to maintain industry without geothermal technology, Uraya focused on its military outposts. It was no secret that they hoped to use the preservation of their economy to surpass Mor Ardain at last. Judging by the base walls, they were well on their way to accomplishing that feat—resolute walls of solid granite rose from the ground, nearly ten feet tall and a few feet thick. Mòrag shuddered when she realized that Fonsa Myma might be similarly refortified. 

“Damn. Mòrag, give me a boost up there,” Zeke joked. 

“Fine. But you’ll have to carry me the rest of the way when you break my back.”

Yuzu looked horrified, apparently oblivious to the running sarcasm. “ _ I’ll  _ go first,” she insisted.

The Blade took several steps backward before breaking out into a sprint. Her forward momentum carried her upward, as if the wall was nothing more than a steep hill. In a matter of seconds, she stood atop the wall, reaching down a hand to help the rest of her party.

“Mòrag, I know you’re agile, but you’ve never done  _ that.  _ Yeesh.”

“It’s a stunt I’ll need to work on, I guess.”

“My lady, you next. Then Master Zeke, then Sazami.” Yuzu’s voice brought them back to the task at hand.

By the time Mòrag had pulled herself up the wall—with a boost from Zeke and his Blade—their cover was blown. Most likely, an Urayan patrol heard Zeke’s unnecessary grunts and came to investigate. From that moment on, everything was chaotic. The one redeeming quality was the fact that no one recognized them as their true selves; the Urayan guards assumed they were common mercs and underestimated them. So without much difficulty, Yuzu deflected enemy bullets while Mòrag helped the others up. Zeke clambered up, and together, they struggled to pull the brutish Sazami over, too. 

In truth, no one would have recognized Mòrag as the Flamebringer by her ether-based attacks; she relied on her physical attacks for the bulk of the mission. What if she misfired and hit Zeke or one of the Blades? Not that she really needed to fight much; Zeke’s lightning and the Urayans’s plate armor did not mix well. Many collapsed in a twitching heap long before they got close. Those that closed the distance were quickly overwhelmed. 

Unfortunately, however, the soldiers kept coming. That was for two reasons, both of which they had failed to account for. First, after the confusion of the crash, they had entered the base on the distinctly wrong side. The holding cells were now twice as far away as they originally planned. More terrain to cross meant more exposure to attacks. Second, Mòrag had only planned for the soldiers on duty, hoping that Brighid and Pandoria’s blitz in the forest would draw most of them out. But now, additional soldiers started spilling out of the barracks, refreshed and ready for combat. Overpowering those took far more energy and skill.

After what seemed like an eternity—and their arms ached from exertion—they reached the prison building. Sazami took one great leap and broke the lock with his weapon. The group rushed inside, slamming the door shut behind them. Sazami threw himself against it just in time. There was the sound of metal crashing against metal as Urayans on the opposite side threw themselves against the door. The Blade dug his feet into earth, ready to stand his ground and keep the Urayans out. He periodically sent sparks through the metal door, electrocuting any soldier who attempted to break through his barrier with force alone. 

“I can’t hold them indefinitely. Go get the others!”

Locating the cell was easy enough. After all, it was the only ether-blocking room in the entire facility. And despite the extensive security outside, the prison building itself was minimally guarded. Only one guard tried to interrupt them.

“Let’s have a little fun with ‘em, eh?” Zeke asked. He knocked on the cell door and cleared his throat loudly. “Hey you numbskulls! Keep it down in there! How many times do I have to tell you?”

The Bringer of Chaos faked an Urayan soldier quite well. In a matter of seconds, the sheet of metal blocking the tiny window in the cell door slid aside, revealing an annoyed Rex. He looked tired and sunshine-deprived, but judging by his face alone, he’d been fed decently enough. 

“It’s not us, you arseh—Zeke! Mòrag! You guys finally came to bust us out!” Rex exclaimed when he caught sight of them.

“Nah, chum,” Zeke replied. “We’re just here to deliver your wedding invitations. Postage rates in Uraya are murder.”

Pyra peeked out the window while Rex doubled over laughing. “It’s so good to see you both.”

Mòrag frowned and shoved Zeke aside. “We can catch up and make jokes later, Zeke. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Internally, giant stasis web cells were extremely effective at keeping their prey subdued. Externally, however, they proved quite fragile. One or two blows to one of the ether generators could unravel the web and render it useless. Even without Brighid’s flames, Mòrag made quick work of the nearest one. The cell door swung open, and the Aegis and her companions came spilling out weapons in hand. 

Mòrag had hoped that the fights would get considerably easier with her friends in tow. But the improvement was not as marked as she hoped. It quickly became clear that Rex and the others were thoroughly exhausted. Their fighting skills also showed three weeks of neglect. They gained three steps forward, then lost two as the Urayans pushed them back. It was slow, agonizing work.

And worse, in the short time they had been inside the prison complex, the looming clouds had opened. The skies poured a cold, driving rain, one that must have been building up for days. In a matter of seconds, they were all thoroughly drenched. The parched ground could not soak in the water, either, so sprinting across the space between the walls and the prison cell became almost impossible. Without the water affinities of Nia and Dromarch, they would have never made it to the wall. 

Once they finally did, Zeke and Sazami began tossing their companions up the wall—despite Nia’s protests about being “manhandled like a sack of potatoes.” Then came another dash to the saffronia tree, which proved far more difficult on account of the rain. Once they finally had the tree at their backs, Mòrag turned to face the base again. Brighid and Pandoria should be here any second, and then this would all be over. 

Minutes passed, each one longer than the last. Or so it seemed. But there was no Brighid, no Pandoria. 

The rain. Brighid. Did Uraya have ether nets? Was that why it was so easy for them to get out of the base—because the Urayans were too preoccupied subduing her Blade? Mòrag shuddered. The Urayans had been gentle with Rex and the other Blades, but Brighid—the Special Inquisitor was something of a figurehead for the Ardainian military. The Inquisitor’s Blade...the Urayan army would not, could not let her off easy. If captured, Brighid would be the subject of decades of Urayan distrust and aggression. 

Zeke seemed to read her anxiety. “Pandoria can handle it. They’ll be here.”

The reassuring squeeze he gave her hand barely registered. “I have to help her.”

“Mòrag, you can’t—”

She didn’t hear the rest of his argument; she had already charged off, listening to nothing but Brighid’s resonance.  _ Architect, let me make it in time.  _ She did hear three steps of footsteps behind her: Yuzu, Mythra, Rex. 

“Zeke’s guarding the others. Let’s finish this fast,” Mythra panted. Mòrag could tell by her tone that there would be no room for discussion. No protests, no plans. Just get in, get out.

Mòrag tried to swallow down the harsh lump in her throat, but it merely settled in an uncomfortable place in her chest. Her resonance with Brighid burned in every vein, growing stronger as they got closer. Any second now, they’d find the Blades. Their surroundings proved it; scorch marks—from both lightning and flame—marred the trees. Some fires still flickered despite the downpour, more evidence that Brighid put up an intense fight. And they could still hear the noise of metal against metal. 

“Get away from me, metalface!” Pandoria shouted. Ironclad soldiers fell left and right around her, zapped into submission. The air stank with the scent of burnt skin. But two Urayans approached from behind, an ether net in hand. A few more seconds, and even Pandoria would be overwhelmed. 

Only then did Mòrag catch sight of two Urayans dragging a struggling mass of blue and purple. The ground underneath the captive figure melted but did not catch fire. Brighid. Although it was hard to recognize her in this sorry state, with the golden webbing of the net digging into her skin. She flinched with each raindrop that struck her, and whenever the trees granted her a moment’s respite from the precipitation, she kicked and struggled in vain to break free from her bonds. But that wasn’t the worst of it. A purplish ichor leaked from multiple cuts on her neck and back. Brighid’s right ankle twisted at an odd angle, also leaking the Blade’s blood. 

Normally, Brighid’s wounds healed within two minutes. But with the net, she failed to draw ether from the atmosphere. She couldn’t heal. And as both her blood and ether levels reduced, she grew weaker, notwithstanding the rainwater that dampened any flames she managed to summon.

Mòrag swallowed hard at the realization: a few minutes more, and Brighid might return to her core crystal.

“Rex. Help Pandoria. I’ll get Brighid.”

“Got it!” 

The Aegis darted to Pandy’s side and made quick work of her opponents. But Mòrag didn’t stay to watch the fight. She was too focused on Brighid to notice the brilliant way Rex disarmed a soldier, or how Mythra threw a man six feet through brute force alone. Getting to Brighid and removing that net was all that mattered.

She drew her chroma katana, reading Yuzu’s ether. It surged through her, bouncing from one fingertip to the next, then out the tip of her weapon. It buzzed—wild, sporadic, dangerous. There was no point sheathing the blade, no need to put a stopper on that power. Now unrestrained electricity was her friend. Her electric currents crackled and snapped, building in force. Brighid, her one confidant, her friend, as much her family as any human. She couldn’t lose her Blade. She quite literally owed Brighid her life. 

Mòrag’s ether energy suddenly exploded like an overloaded circuit. 

It was an Art that Mòrag never managed again; its power stemmed from sheer desperation, from the emotions she usually kept restrained and guarded. For a moment, the woods were as bright as day as the lightning shot out. Afterwards, no one could accurately recall if the sparks originated from Mòrag, her Blade, or her weapon, so great was the magnitude of that strike. But the source mattered not; anything metal within a fifty-ped radius was struck by a spear of lightning. The trees, wet as they were, also attracted the contact. They sizzled, singed, but only one caught fire. Most importantly, every nearby soldier clattered to the ground, rendered motionless by the shock. Any combatants that evaded the strike hesitated, scared to approach lest they fall to the same unrestrained ether. 

The enemy neutralized, Mòrag rushed to her Blade’s side. Her katana, powered by ether, could not cut through the net; she had to unravel the mass of netting by hand. Only when Rex, Mythra, and Pandoria came to help did they actually manage to get through the tangles. As soon as she was freed, Brighid took a huge gasp for ether-rich air. 

Now Mòrag clearly saw the bruises, the cuts, the broken fingers, too. Architect, had the Urayans kicked and beat the Blade before trying to drag her away?

“Mòrag, we gotta get out of here,” Rex urged.

“Brighid needs to heal. She can’t walk,” Mòrag said, swallowing down bile once she got a better look at the broken ankle. It was a mess of blood and splintered crystal. “We’ll just have to hold them off long enough.”

Pandoria shook her head. “There’ll be more coming if we just sit here. We gotta go. She won’t heal fast in the rain.”

Mòrag frowned. “Sorry, Brighid. I know you hate this, but there’s no choice.”

She hoisted Brighid onto her shoulders piggyback style. Normally, Brighid vocally protested being carried—as did her Driver, so she came by the distaste honestly—but today, whether from sheer exhaustion or pain, she did not complain. She weakly clasped Mòrag’s shoulders.

“Back to the saffronia!” 

It was a long sprint back to the rendezvous point, but the Urayans did not give chase. Nia saw their approach, surmised what happened, and quickly set to work on Brighid’s injuries when they arrived. Despite her and Dromarch’s undivided attention, the process took several minutes. 

“Yikes, that’s a gnarly one,” Nia whistled when she saw Brighid’s ankle. “Flesh Eater form it is.”

Mòrag felt her heart rate slow as the injuries vanished and the rain washed away the blood. Finally, the pained expression left Brighid’s face. Aside from her quenched firepower, Brighid was safe. Back to normal. 

Architect, there had been far too many close calls as of late.

Mòrag threw her arms around Brighid, pulling her into a rare hug. “That’s the last time I send you off into combat alone. Ever.”

“I’m fine. We accomplished our mission. That’s all that matters.”

“Not to break up your touching little family moment here, Mòrag, but we really gotta get going,” Zeke urged.

“Where we headed, anyway? Poppi has internal compass installed. Can help navigate in front,” Tora suggested.

“Due east,” Mòrag answered, helping Brighid to her feet. She wanted to give Brighid a little more time to rest and recover—Nia’s healing was powerful, but it couldn’t restore energy levels. But Zeke was right; they needed to escape enemy territory before Uraya thought better of letting them go. 

They set off at a quick, almost breakneck speed, quickly putting another mile between them and the Urayan base. Once they were comfortable with the distance from their enemies, they slowed to a more comfortable speed. However, they quickly realized they couldn’t let their guard down; Uraya’s nocturnal wildlife had not yet learned to fear humans. More than once, a lone Feris jumped out at them from behind a tree.

“You know what, I’ll go ahead and lead the way,” Zeke announced after they felled yet another monster. “Anyway, can’t let Mòrag take point. She’s useless in the rain.” 

In spite of the rain, Mòrag felt a little angry blue flame swirl around the hilt of her weapon before the water quenched it. Did he have to find little ways to irritate her? Alone, Zeke kept his over-the-top theatrics to a minimum. But they came out in full force around their friends—especially Rex and Nia. The former encouraged him with his boisterous laughter, the latter with her sarcastic banter. 

“Don’t think that a few kisses gives you license to make light of me,” Mòrag whispered. There was a very loud, almost choked gasp. She stiffened. “Kora is right behind me, isn’t she?”

Zeke nodded.

“Wait, you two have kissed?” Kora screamed. “Oh. My. Architect. We need details.”

“Kora, why don’t you shout that just a little bit louder? I don’t think  _ all  _ of Uraya heard you,” Rex scolded. “But wait—what?”

Nia made a loud purring noise. “Now that I’ve gotta see.”

Seven pairs of eyes looked from Mòrag to Zeke and back again. Zeke scratched his head and shrugged, Pandoria snickering behind him. 

“I didn’t mean—we—it’s not—” Mòrag stammered. “Oh, bolt it! You all are ridiculous.”

She stormed off, quickly putting a fair amount of distance between herself and the group.

“I’ll go watch her back,” Mythra volunteered.

“Thank you,” Brighid said quietly. While they were all bedraggled from the rain, Brighid looked thoroughly doused—so badly that her flaming hair was completely extinguished, clinging to her neck, shoulders, and back. She would not be much help protecting anyone. 

“A very flustered Flamebringer. That’s not a sight you see every day,” Dromarch commented.

“Zeke. Explain. Now,” Kora demanded.

“What do you expect me to say? It’s the truth.” He grinned sheepishly.

“So you two are lip-locking now? Wait, were we gone for three weeks or three months?” Nia asked. “I mean, we knew an engagement was on the table. But when we left, Mòrag wasn’t exactly interested in old Shellhead here.”

“…Well, we are getting married next week.”

Another gasp echoed through the trees, this time from the entire party—although Kora’s was still the loudest. The electric Blade looked like she might pass out. 

“Empire weddings happen very fast,” Tora said. “What Zeke do to make ice-queen Mòrag like him so quickly?”

“Tora, that’s not very nice!”

“Friend Mòrag already not very fond of Masterpon. At least he get gender right now.”

“It’s an arranged marriage, so it’s a bit more complicated than that, Tora,” Zeke replied, fidgeting with the cord of his eyepatch. “I mean, I can’t speak for Mòrag’s feelings. She’s always so reserved about them, ya know? Sure, we’ve kissed. But there’s a big gap between kissing someone and actually  _ wanting  _ to marry them. I think she’s somewhere in that gap, trying to figure it out.”

“Brighid?”

The Fire Blade twisted a sizable quantity of water from her hair. “For once, Zeke has the right of it. Mòrag has…a lot of emotions she’s still trying to work through. That’s all I’ll say.”

Kora pouted. “You two are so  _ boring. _ ”

“If you’re so set on knowing, why don’t you go ask her yourself?”

“I’d like to live a little longer, thanks.”

Meanwhile, the Aegis had caught up to the Flamebringer, who gave nothing more than a terse nod to acknowledge her presence. Mythra hesitated, unsure if she should let Pyra handle this or just forge ahead. Zeke had already explained their lack of an airship. Between that and the threat to Brighid, Mòrag had experienced a very frustrating day. And even on a good day, Mòrag would have been frustrated by Kora’s nagging questions. Could she even take a lecture right now? Pyra urged her to go for it.

“I thought you promised to work on expressing your feelings,” Mythra began. “But I see you’re still absolute garbage at it.”

“Hmm.”

“Seriously. Why the temper tantrum? You kissed Zeke. So what? If you like him, just come out and admit it.”

“This is an arrangement neither of us asked for,” Mòrag replied quietly. “It’s a bit more complicated than you and Rex. I’m performing a duty. Kisses or not, I can’t let my emotions—no matter what they are or aren’t—get in the way.”

“That’s bull, Mòrag. Woman up and say what you feel. Quit hiding behind the excuse that it’s complicated.”

“…If you knew what I’ve been through, you wouldn’t view it as an excuse. Everyone I’ve ever cared for has either left me behind or betrayed me. Brighid and Niall are the only exceptions.”

Pyra took over. “So you’re scared to let anyone else be that close.”

A nod was the only response Mòrag could manage.

“I know the feeling well.”

“Please don’t pretend to understand. I don’t need false pity.” 

“Listen, I don't know what you've been through that made you feel that way. But I do know what it feels like to be scared of attachment. I...I accidentally killed Hugo and Milton and thousands of Tornans. I caused the deaths of so many friends. It tore me apart. It’s why Mythra sealed herself away for so long. So when we met Rex, we tried to keep him at arm’s length so we wouldn't have to risk losing anyone we cared for. But I made myself miserable doing that. Please don't do that to yourself, Mòrag. Even if you only have the tiniest sliver of fondness for Zeke—and I think you do—you owe it to yourself to give it a chance.”

Mythra emerged again. "Yeah. Get out of your head for once and just do what  _ feels  _ right.”

“...Pep talks from you two are simultaneously comforting and abrasive. I don't know how you do it,” Mòrag said at last.

“Rex might be a lot more impulsive than you, but you both have the same blasted tendency to overthink absolutely everything...Promise me you'll give your own feelings a chance, Mòrag.”

“I'll try.”

“Now, can we go back to the others without you freaking out over Kora’s questions?”

“I suppose I have to get over my own embarrassment sooner or later.”

“She only does it because she thinks you two are cute together, you know. Now come on.”

With the initial shock of the revelation worn off, Kora had mellowed considerably by the time Mòrag and the Aegis returned to the group. And it was a good thing, too; there was a more important matter to attend to—how to get out of Uraya. The sprint away from the military base had thoroughly exhausted most of them, especially those who’d been under arrest for three weeks. Even though they were treated respectfully as captives, it had still been almost a month since Rex and the others had fought or even trained. Their fatigue levels proved it. Each footstep was a struggle; if not for Nia’s healing, Pyra would have walked home on a sprained ankle. Poppi, of course, was the exception, and the artificial Blade carried her Nopon master about as if he were a giant playground ball. 

“Anyone know any Titan mating calls?” Pandoria asked. “I’m just saying, if we could lure our old Titan back over here, we could at least try to hitch a ride on its back.”

“A crass and uncomfortable method, but it would be better than walking,” Brighid mused.

“Just about any old Titan would do right about now,” Rex sighed. If they hadn’t been in enemy territory at that precise moment, he probably would have collapsed in an exhausted heap. 

“Masterpon, look! Up there!”

Poppi pointed and waved, her arm bouncing up and down even faster than usual. It took a few seconds for their non-mechanical eyes to focus on that grey, swirling form. But once they had, everyone shared in her excitement. A lithe yet draconic body, flesh like stone, a grassy back, and, most importantly, strong, purple wings that could traverse the entirety of Uraya in a matter of hours.

Gramps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long-overdue (albeit brief) appearance from Gramps/Azurda. Morag having a Driver-derp moment. Awkward flirting and cuddling. A threat to Brighid--gosh, when I started this chapter, I had NO idea there would be this much to it! But my dear little Drivers kept running from one mess to the next, so here we are. 
> 
> Sorry the wait was a little longer this time. I was traveling for a family funeral, so my writing hours were more limited. Plus, I procrastinated writing this chapter and got some upcoming scenes down on paper. 
> 
> Next chapter brings the long-awaited wedding. I'm so excited to finally share some of these fun, awkward, or sweet scenes with you all--they've been brewing for a long time (but don't worry that the wedding ends the "Slow burn" side of things; there is still a TON to work through). I have more than 2,000 words of the wedding chapter already written, so the time between updates shouldn't be quite as long this time. But no promises. 
> 
> As always, thanks for supporting this little story of mine--see you next chapter!


	11. And Thus, Boy Wed Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rings wedding bells like a madwoman*
> 
> I would say that a lot of this chapter is self-indulgent fluff and goofiness on my part, but hey, the wedding is a major event in this plot. Yeah. It's plot. X'D

“Rex. How many times must I tell you not to run off without sending word of your whereabouts? Corrine and I have been beside ourselves with worry.”

After the stress of the day, Azurda’s appearance seemed too good to be true. How had the Titan even found them? And yet there he was, back in his mature form, and judging by his expression, very angry at the young Aegis Driver. 

“Gramps!” Rex dashed forward and hugged the great Titan’s forefoot. “How’d you find us?”

“I’ve only been trying to track you down for weeks, you bonehead. Corrine never heard from you, so she worried that you’d been ambushed on the way home from the gala. It wasn’t until I visited Mor Ardain to speak with the Emperor that I learned your whereabouts. And unsurprisingly, I found you in a heap of trouble. Again. How _do_ you manage it, child?”

“Sorry, Gramps. I meant to send Auntie Corrine a letter, I just got caught up in it all and forgot. I”m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry her.”

“It’s been two months since you left home, Rex! You can’t leave us without warning for so long. When will you learn to think before you act?”

“I think I am partly to blame for his unexplained absence, Azurda,” Mòrag spoke up. “Rex has been kind enough to help me with a case. It’s my fault he got caught up in this. My apologies.”

The Titan turned to her and gave a kind smile—or at least it looked like a smile. It was always so hard to read emotions on Titans, now matter their size. 

“Flamebringer, you needn’t apologize. Knowing Rex, he probably insisted on helping. By the way, His Majesty personally asked me to lend you my assistance if I found you in my travels. I take it you all could use a ride?”

“Your assistance would be most welcome, yes.”

“Thanks, old man. We’ve got a wedding to catch, so you couldn’t have showed up at a better time,” Zeke added.

“Old man? Be careful with your words, or this wedding might find itself without a groom,” Azurda replied. It was difficult to discern if he was serious or sarcastic.

The old Titan lowered a wing, forming a ramp for them to climb on. Mòrag ignored her Blade’s protests and helped Brighid up onto the Titan’s grassy back. It was a good thing, too: despite Nia’s healing, the ordeal had drained much of her strength. Brighid fought hard to stay awake, but within a few minutes of Azurda’s takeoff, she fell asleep on Mòrag’s shoulder. 

“...Not to criticize,” Mythra began, “but why didn’t you guys just ask Azurda to help with this rescue mission to begin with? Would have been a lot easier. And more reliable.”

“Oi, we just rescued you, didn’t we? Don’t judge,” Zeke retorted. 

“...Everything went wrong, and I am mostly to blame,” Mòrag admitted. “Uraya will probably retaliate, too. If they declare war within a week, it will come as no surprise.”

“Someone’s in a sour mood.”

“Relax, Mòrag. The important part is that you got us out, right?” Rex pointed out. Leave it to the Aegis’s Driver to put a positive spin on anything. “And we got more information on that Cor creep and the Aramach, too.”

Mòrag visibly brightened at Rex’s last statement. “What? Tell me everything!”

The Aegis Driver hesitated, looking from Morag to her unconscious Blade and back again. “Look, it’s probably not something we should talk about while we’re still in enemy territory. But we’ve got something to show for all of this, okay?”

“...Good. I hope it was worth all the trouble.”

The opportunity to act on Rex’s information never came, however. As soon as they landed in the Empire, Mòrag was summoned to report to the Emperor (and reassure him of her safety, as news of the Nopon’s crashed airship arrived before they did). As a result, Rex ended up giving his report to Brighid; the Blade, against her best instincts, chose to withhold the information from Mòrag—temporarily. Not that it mattered much, though: the upcoming ceremony overshadowed absolutely everything. 

The few remaining days passed in an absolute whirlwind; Mòrag felt like she had barely unpacked her belongings before the eve of the ceremony arrived. She intended to spend her last evening as a single woman in complete solitude, reading and soaking in the last few hours of silence she might ever have.

Her friends had other plans.

Mòrag had never attended a bachelorette party in her life. Even if her occupation afforded her the time to, she tended to avoid parties—especially the wilder ones. They didn’t suit her. So when the Aegis, Kora, and Nia all ordered her to “put on something cute that’s not a uniform” and join them for her own party, Mòrag feared she was doomed to a tedious evening. Fortunately for her, the girls had not had sufficient time to plan anything incredibly annoying or disastrous. It was less of a “party” and more of a trip into town for dessert at a local cafe and pleasant conversation—a welcome alternative.

The cafe closed long before her companions were “partied out,” as they called it; since the public regarded the wedding ceremony as a national holiday, most locations closed very early in the evening. So before Mòrag quite knew what was happening, she found her apartments overtaken by her friends. Pyra insisted on making tea while the others quite literally made themselves at home.

“Whoa, Mòrag,” Nia whistled as she toured the room. “Your room’s just plain gorgeous. And it’s huge!”

“Mòrag royalty. It not all that surprising.”

“It wasn’t always this large,” Mòrag explained. The opulence wasn’t something she really took any pride in; it was just another tradition that accompanied her station. To her, inns and hotels were just as pleasant at the end of a hard day on the road. “We did some remodeling in preparation for the wedding.”

“Ah, wedded bliss,” Nia giggled. “So you and Shellhead will be living here? Not Tantal?”

Mòrag nodded. Moving away from Mor Ardain had been her greatest concern about the alliance, but Niall had aggressively argued for this arrangement. Her gratitude over not moving had made the hassle of the renovations tolerable.

Pyra’s call of “Tea’s ready!” came at just the right moment—Kora had grown bored of a hands-off tour and was about to start rifling through her things (or more accurately, _their_ things; the last of Zeke’s belongings were brought in that morning). The last thing that Blade needed to find was the prince’s underwear drawer. Thus distracted, the group congregated on the floor. As large as the apartments were, the seating area had only been designed with four adults in mind—Zeke, Mòrag, and their Blades. No one minded, though. Something about the informality of it filled them all with nostalgia, as if they were all seated around a campfire during their travels about Alrest. 

“I still think we should pop open a bottle of champagne or something,” Nia pointed out. “It’s not every day a friend gets married.”

“After what happened at the gala, every staff member at the palace is under strict orders to keep every last one of you away from bottles,” Brighid replied. “So you’d be hard-pressed to get one.”

“Besides, tea’s better for the nerves. We’re supposed to be helping Mòrag relax, not give her a hangover.” Pyra took a long sip of tea, apparently quite pleased with her brew.

“Does Mòrag even get nervous?”

“I’m still a human being, Kora. Of course I get nervous.”

“I’ll tell you one thing she’s not nervous about, though,” Pandoria chimed in. “Smooching Zeke. We caught them kissing in Uraya. And let me tell you, she definitely wasn’t nervous.” 

Mòrag and Brighid rolled their eyes in unison as the others gave a collective gasp. For the first time, Mòrag managed to keep her cool. She’d been expecting the teasing to start since her friends dragged her to town, so she had braced herself for the comments. It was a wonder it had taken them so long to begin.

That was all it took for Nia to start singing. “Zeke and Mòrag, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

Pandoria and Kora inevitably joined in, quite loudly and off-key. By the time they’d reached the end of the rhyme, they were all in stitches. 

“If memory serves, it was more like ‘falling from a tree,’ but no matter,” Brighid added.

“Oh, don’t encourage them.”

Inevitably, the song’s “baby carriage” line sparked a long, animated conversation about Zeke and Mòrag’s future children. Mòrag breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out to be pretty harmless—cute baby names, whether their first child would be a boy or a girl, which friend would be a good godparent, and of course, what the children would look like. That topic alone kept them entertained for what seemed like hours. Granted, Kora, Mythra, Pandoria, and Nia were the main contributors. Poppi appeared clueless about human child rearing customs and basic biology, and much of the conversation was beyond her. Brighid secretly wanted to share her opinions about how cute a child with Zeke’s hair and Mòrag’s little turned-up nose would be, but out of deference for her Driver, she kept quiet.

And Mòrag kept silent for fear saying a word would spark an irrevocable blush. 

Eventually, the excitement and gossip began to wane—with the exception of Mythra and Kora, who were still going strong. Brighid began cleaning up the cups and plates, sending a clear signal that the girls should now make themselves scarce. Only Pandoria got the message at first; the others required more explicit dismissals. 

“Mòrag is too polite to kick you all out, so I will,” Brighid said. A good-natured smirk could be heard in her tone.

“Brighid. You are _such_ a spoilsport.”

“You’re welcome to continue talking about how cute the children will be as long as you like. But do it elsewhere. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, and Lady Mòrag needs her rest.”

“Fine. But we’re gonna be here first thing to watch Mòrag get ready.”

“Anything but that. Please.” Mòrag said. Kora of all people _would_ show up and pester her last few moments’ peace.

Kora gave her “we’ll-see-about-that” wink and left, with Mythra and the others following. Once they were alone, Mòrag sighed and tossed herself on the bed, not bothering to remove her shoes. Brighid gave an amused huff.

“They’re going to cause more trouble tomorrow than they did at the gala. Aren’t they?” she asked, talking more to the air than to Brighid.

Her Blade answered anyway. “Most likely. Although I’ve already made arrangements for Turters to be, well, let’s just say he’ll be well guarded tomorrow. And not by Pandoria or Zeke. So at least we’ll avoid offending the Von Reagan household again.”

It was Mòrag’s turn to laugh. “We could do worse things. While you’re at it, see to it that Senator Carrow is kept as far from me as possible tomorrow.”

“Already accounted for. Now you see to it that you get some sleep,” Brighid ordered, dismissing herself once the room was clean. 

Even if Mòrag had bothered to change into sleepwear, sleep would have still evaded her. Hours ticked past as she stared at the ceiling. How was she supposed to relax tonight? Too many thoughts ran wild throughout her head. Had Uraya given up on preventing the alliance? Why hadn’t they retaliated for the attack on their base? Why was Rex being odd about telling her his news about Cor and the Aramach? Come to think of it, why had she spotted him talking with Brighid two days ago? 

Then, of course, there was the distinctly powerful thought that tomorrow night, this wouldn’t just be _her_ room. It would be Zeke’s, too. And that knowledge carried with it many connotations, some almost pleasant to consider, some not so much. She hated the mixed emotions it gave her; her feelings had been easier to deal with when they had been simple indifference. Tonight’s combination of guilt and curiosity, however, baffled her. 

And then there were the nightmares, always threatening to ruin everything. 

_Maybe a walk will help clear my head._ No one would be up at this time of night, so she chose not to change back into her uniform. She’d just take a quick stroll to the gardens, sit on a bench to let the night air soothe her a bit, and then return. Anything to avoid brooding over tomorrow. 

When she arrived, however, she found the intended bench occupied. 

“I take it I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.”

Zeke nodded, patting the spot on the bench beside him. “I haven’t even tried. Been here since dear old dad dragged me here to talk...I heard the girls threw you a little bachelorette party. Have fun?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it much of a party. But it was sweet of them to try,” Mòrag said, taking a seat.

“Rex offered me one. I turned him down. There was no way I was going to a party that Tora helped set up. Even I didn’t really want to hit the hot springs with that pervy furball.”

Mòrag laughed, trying not to think about what other awkward ideas the Nopon might suggest for such an event. “Probably a wise decision. What did your father want to talk about?”

Zeke shook his head. “Just Dad being, well, Dad. Had a ‘present’ and plenty of unsolicited advice.”

Only then did Mòrag notice that Zeke twirled a small glass bottle absentmindedly on the bench beside him. “Is that the gift he gave you?”

“You do _not_ want to know,” Zeke said, irritation clear in his voice. “He overstepped his bounds big-time.”

“Something that even you find out of line? Now I’m curious.”

She moved to pick up the bottle. Surely it was more interesting than guarded small-talk.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The moonlight was just bright enough to illuminate the label: _DeAlego Trading, Est. 4015. Lovesource Ultimate Blend. Boost your libido & your stamina for complete gratification, all night long. Supports fertility & reproductive health. _

It took all of Mòrag’s self-control not to drop the bottle on the paving stones. She set it down as quickly as she could. So much for avoiding the complicated thoughts with a peaceful garden stroll.

“H-he gave you a-a—”

“Yeah. Along with plenty of so-called advice that I hope I can burn from my memory.”

“Architect, that’s incredibly...awkward.” Mòrag shuddered.

“I chewed him out for it. Like, I know both countries need an heir, but there are some lines you just don’t cross. Betcha Niall didn’t do anything like that, eh?”

“Elysium, no. I’d probably smack him if he did.”

“Heh. So would Brighid.”

A very stiff silence passed between them. 

“So, I have to ask, while we’re on the subject. Um...a-are we really going to try to have a kid right away? Like, starting tomorrow?”

Mòrag stared at her toes. There was that odd churning in her stomach again, the heated twist in her chest. For all the thought she’d given the issue, it was not one they’d discussed at length, especially regarding the timing. It was just one of many expectations set on them—the entire premise of tomorrow’s wedding, in fact. What use was there talking about it?

“We need to,” she murmured. “An heir is the whole point of this marriage, after all.”

“Yeah. I just, you know, sex is—”

“Please, be mature about it.”

“I _am_ being mature. That’s why I’m asking, not just assuming. I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you into anything.”

“My _country_ is pressuring us. And apparently your father is, too. Which makes this more than a little awkward.”

“...It might not be so bad,” Zeke admitted, the usual confidence gone from his voice. “Kissing you is a lot better than I expected, honestly. So who knows?”

“D-did you think I’d be bad at it? Kissing, I mean.”

Zeke laughed nervously. “Honestly, I kinda did. Glad I was wrong, though.”

So he _was_ somewhat attracted to her. She suspected as much, maybe even hoped for it; after all, he had been the one to make the first move—weeks ago now. It seemed...adolescent to be concerned that he liked something as simple as her kiss, but knowing he did filled her with a strange sense of relief.

_I almost feel badly for the poor bastard. He has no idea what he’s falling for._

There was a long silence as both royals debated what to say next, or if they should speak at all. Was there even anything worth saying after such a thing? Zeke considered just saying goodnight—his sleepiness was finally catching up with him—but he also wanted to end the conversation on something, anything besides his father’s “gift” and its intended side effects. 

“Say, what’s your favorite color?”

“What?” She looked at him quizzically.

“It just occurred to me that we’re getting married tomorrow and I don’t know what your favorite color is. Kinda basic info, right?”

To his relief, the tension from the previous topic melted as she gave a small smile. “Blue. For obvious reasons.”

“It’d be ironic if you hated the look of Brighid’s flames,” Zeke laughed.

“It’s Niall’s eye color, too. And the sky at Gormott was always so beautiful, so unlike Mor Ardain’s. I guess I can’t help but favor blue. What about you?”

Without her hat, Mòrag’s face was far easier to read. His question, as innocent as it was, had caught her off-guard, but now her expression displayed genuine interest. Until now, he never noticed how much her eyebrows alone communicated her thoughts. Her eyes, too. What need did she have for words when a simple furrowed forehead or raised eyebrow said so much? And the way her eyes gleamed or widened, always rich like dark honey...a shame her visor always hid them. 

“Do you want the easy answer or the honest one?”

Was that a twinkle in her eye? 

“The honest one.”

“I never really had a favorite color, not until recently. White was pretty much all I ever saw growing up. Now, though, my favorite is...it’s the color of your eyes.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and her eyes darted about, like bees buzzing about searching for pollen, for an appropriate response. Red bloomed across her entire face.

He brought a hand to her chin, pulling her gaze back up. “Please don’t look away. They say eyes are the window to the soul. A-and I want to understand yours better.”

 _Don’t look too long, Zeke. It’s too dark for you,_ Mòrag thought. 

She leaned forward and kissed him—not for the pleasure of the act, but for an excuse to close her eyes. She feared that, if he looked long enough, he’d see the secrets she fought so hard to keep buried underneath a gaze of professional indifference. And there was so much light in his gaze, so much hope. It seemed wrong to quench that with the truth. 

_He’s going to find out tomorrow if you go through with this._

If Zeke interpreted her embrace as an evasion, he certainly didn’t act like it. Any shyness or reservations he displayed with previous kisses had, without a doubt, vanished. His hands cupped her face, then one mingled in her hair as the other traced down her neck to the small of her back. Despite the fabric of her blouse preventing direct contact, his fingers set her spine on fire. This was wrong; it had to be. And yet the touch made her gasp—even more so when his lips trailed down her chin, finding the skin on her neck left exposed by her unbuttoned collar.

“What happened to toning it down for the wedding?” Mòrag asked, a choked laugh threatening to interrupt her question.

“That doesn’t really apply tonight.” He gave the base of her throat another gentle peck, then pulled away, an anxious smile on his face.

“There’s not much of ‘tonight’ left. We should try to get some rest,” she said, trying to fake a yawn. She stood. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

He nodded and rose, too. “...I guess I’ll see you at the altar, then. Goodnight.”

After a simple kiss on her cheek, Zeke sauntered down the path towards the palace. 

_Just how long are you going to lead him on like this?_

_If not for you, I wouldn’t have to. Just leave me be._

_Ha! You know you need me, so deal with it._

_Can’t I have a moment’s peace? Please—just let me have tomorrow, without any of this. Without you._

_...Fine. Enjoy your little fairy tale wedding, princess. But remember that all fairy tales end at midnight. No matter how much you lie to yourself, to him, the spell will break. And he’ll be face to face with the disgusting, ugly truth of your existence. Then his favorite color will be the least of your worries._

* * *

“It’s almost time,” Brighid whispered. “Let’s get those finishing touches done and make our way to the cathedral.”

If not for the weightless sensation in her stomach, Mòrag might have found the morning peaceful—just herself and her Blade, preparing for the day. No distractions, no visitors, and no real need for conversation, either. In fact, Brighid was so uncharacteristically taciturn that Mòrag found herself reaching through the ether to read her Blade’s emotions, not the other way around. The gold mark of their affinity sparkled between them, and Mòrag felt her chest tighten as Brighid’s feelings enveloped her.

Pride. Indignation. Awe. Fear. Love. Shame. A touch of hope. And encompassing it all, a sensation of resigned acceptance.

That mess of feelings rolled through their bond like a strong current when Brighid picked up the final piece of her ensemble: a small golden circlet. It was not unlike Niall’s crown for court, simply more delicate and feminine. Mòrag first wore it at her coming-of-age ceremony; today would be the second time. 

Brighid held the circlet as if it weighed a ton, eyes downcast. “I always get emotional when I see this. Seeing you in a wedding gown is one thing. But this…”

“Brighid—”

“All those years ago, if I had done my job as your Blade, if I’d protected you like I should have, you’d be Empress today. Then none of this would be happening.”

“Brighid, we’ve discussed this. You saved me. More than once, in fact. And if I’d been Empress, we never would have travelled with Rex and the Aegis. They might not have found Elysium without us. In the end, it was the best possible outcome for everyone. Please stop blaming yourself. I certainly don’t.”

Brighid smiled weakly and set the circlet on her Driver’s head, adjusting a few stray curls. “...We’ve been through so much together. The day I resonated with you, you were such a lanky, tenacious little girl with eyes like fire. I had no idea what a powerful, brave, beautiful, and selfless woman you’d become. You might not wear the crown, but to me, you’re still a queen.”

“Please don’t start crying, Brighid. If you do, I will, too.” Mòrag laughed. “And then you’d have to redo all this ghastly makeup. You know I would forget it’s on and rub my eyes.”

That drew a sniffly chuckle from Brighid. “We can’t have that. We’d be late.”

“Shall we go, then?”

Brighid took a deep breath and nodded. Neither Driver nor Blade released the affinity connection coursing between them until they arrived at the site: Mor Ardain’s newest cathedral. As a country, Mor Ardain had previously deferred all official religious functions to Indol. Many citizens adhered to the Architect’s faith but saw no reason to clutter their already battered, overcrowded Titan with an excessive church when Indol was so easy to reach. Today, however, the leadership of Praetor Amalthus had all but crippled the Indoline Church. Not one country wanted to associate with it, nor did they intend to renounce the Architect entirely. Flawed though he was, they still owed him their lives and their future posterity. As a result, each nation had established its own branch of the faith. Churches and cathedrals popped up as a natural extension of that new independence. Unsurprisingly, the Ardainian church leaders jumped at the opportunity to host the ceremony. 

When they entered the vestibule, a very flustered coordinator pulled Brighid aside and whispered something to her. Judging by the woman’s expression, it was not good news. But once she had delivered her message, the coordinator hissed “Places, everyone!” and acted as if nothing had happened. 

Mòrag felt a lump form in her throat as she was ordered to stand near the great doors, just behind Brighid, who’d be entering the hall first. This was it.

“Just so you’re aware before you head inside,” Brighid whispered, “it seems that Zeke has Pandoria standing with him. As his best man.”

Mòrag shook her head. “He explicitly told me Rex was going to fill that role.”

“Apparently Rex didn’t like the idea of being in front of a crowd. Or Zeke let you believe it so you couldn’t say no to Pandoria.”

Even without Turters in hand, Zeke could always find a way to cause a commotion. Entertaining to the last. “I guess there’s nothing to be done about it now, though.”

“He could have at least—Oh, Your Majesty!” Brighid bowed low. 

Mòrag turned to face the young Emperor, beginning a bow of her own. Niall stopped her. 

“Today, you bow to no one, Mòrag,” he whispered.

Niall looked on the verge of tears. He had deferred most of the decisions about the ceremony to Brighid and Mòrag, and as a result, this was the first time he had seen the gown, much less the final ensemble. And counting the gala, it was only one of three occasions he had witnessed her in a dress.

“Architect’s Elysium,” he gasped. “Mòrag, I—you...I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you like it?”

Niall nodded, but the furrow in his brow betrayed more complicated feelings. “You’re an absolute vision, Mòrag. I’m so proud to call you my sister. But...but I can’t help feeling that this should be my wedding, not yours. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your whole future on my account. If you don’t want to do this, if you’d rather those doors stay closed, I won’t escort you down that aisle. I can still call the whole thing off. I wouldn’t think any less of you if you chose to do so.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both. And I don’t think I’m ‘sacrificing my future’ entirely, you know. I’m simply choosing a different future than the one I originally anticipated.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to live with myself if this makes you miserable. Not when I could have stopped it.”

“I won’t be miserable,” Mòrag insisted. She paused as Brighid entered the auditorium, leaving them alone in the vestibule for a moment. “May I speak freely? Not as your subject or Inquisitor, but as your sister.”

Niall nodded. “I wish you would always do so.”

“Fine. As your older sister, I forbid you to mention this again. You’re not allowed to feel guilty over it, either. I made the choice to marry, for your sake. And for that reason, I will never regret doing it. So please don’t torture yourself over it. Promise me you won’t.”

“Just...just answer one question for me first. Do you care for Zeke at all?”

“I do. Perhaps not as deeply as a bride ought to on her wedding day, but he does mean...something to me.”

Niall sighed heavily. “All right. That’s good enough for me. I won’t mention it again. You have my word.”

The Emperor extended his arm. Mòrag slipped hers into it. From a traditional standpoint, it was all wrong to have Niall escort her, and yet, she could not fathom giving the job to anyone else. 

“Ready?” 

She nodded, and the doors to the auditorium swung open noiselessly. A hush washed over the audience, only for the silence to be broken by the bright tones of the Ardainian national anthem.

“Don’t forget to smile,” Niall whispered. “Brighid’s orders.”

If presented the option to climb the World Tree or to walk down the cathedral’s massive aisle, Mòrag would have chosen the former. Even the relentless battles until the top would have been a welcome change from all the faces peering back at her. Was the entire citizenship or Mor Ardain _and_ Tantal here? Or was the aisle growing longer with each step? As always, Niall appeared completely at ease, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a perfectly rehearsed smile. Even she couldn’t tell if it was a genuine grin or not. 

One sight did manage to coax a real smile from the Inquisitor: a colorfully adorned group amidst the sea of black, navy, and earth-toned formals. Nia had chosen a striking yellow dress. Dromarch sported an immaculate, freshly-groomed coat. Poppi, shockingly, was wearing something other than a maid costume. Her masterpon stood next to her in what Mòrag could only assume was the Nopon version of a tuxedo. It did not suit him. His wings kept getting tangled in the coattails for a rather comical mixture of fabric and feathers. Meanwhile, Pyra had traded out her normal attire for a full-length gown of red, white, and gold that might also serve as Mythra’s outfit when they switched; it probably looked good on either of them. Next to the Aegis was Rex, looking both very sharp and very uncomfortable in a bold blue suit. Pyra kept smacking his hand away whenever he fussed with his tie. Several other Blades had joined the entourage, too: Kora, Azami, Crossette, and Dagas—who clearly believed the whole event was beneath him but that his “kingly duty” demanded his so-called royal presence. 

With the exception of the haughty Blade, they all waved and grinned as she approached. Rex winked and gave her a thumbs-up. Little did he know, his Blade did the same behind him. 

Other friendly faces waited at the front of the auditorium. Brighid, of course, gleamed so brightly that she looked like Radiance come alive. Opposite her was Pandoria, dressed in an unusually ruffly outfit. She seemed to be on her best behaviour, despite the confused glances the Ardainians threw at the “best man.”

Most striking, however, was Zeke. For once, he looked like a crown prince. Or at least, she assumed he did. Tantalese ceremonial garb was something of a mystery until now. She’d half expected stuffy, bulky furs, like the clothes Eulogimenos wore at court. But Zeke’s attire was sleeker, bright white, almost as though a tailor had taken the Tantalese royal guard’s white uniform and turned it into a suit. A crimson half-cape slung over his shoulder. The prince’s eyepatch had been given new stitching and a fresh polish, too. Even his hair was neatly combed and slicked back. A carved ivory circlet topped off the ensemble—nothing as flashy as his father’s crown, but still ornate enough to suit the occasion. If not for the cheeky grin, Mòrag might not have recognized him. 

Finally, they reached the front of the auditorium. The anthem went silent. For a moment, the notes lingered, echoing through the cathedral. And in that moment, while the audience was distracted by the celestial reverberations, Niall abandoned his public propriety and pulled her into a hug.

“I love you, Mòrag,” he whispered. “And I’m so proud of you.”

She returned the embrace. “I love you too, Niall.”

The young Emperor gave her one last smile before turning to take his seat. It was all so carefully rehearsed: when the Emperor sat, so did the audience, unprompted. Meanwhile, Mòrag ascended the steps to join Zeke, with an ever-watchful Brighid ensuring that her dress did not get caught up behind her.

“Ladies and gentlemen, fellow children of the Architect, on behalf of His Majesty, King Eulogimenos Aethelwulf Tantal, and His Majesty, Emperor Niall Hugo Ardanach, it is my esteemed honor to welcome you to the wedding ceremony of Tantal’s crown prince, Ozychlyrus Brounev Tantal, to Mor Ardain’s Special Inquisitor and princess, Lady Mòrag Ladair.” The priest finally paused his recitation to take a breath. “Today we join together not only two people but two great and noble houses, two proud nations, two glorious histories. May the Architect bless us on this momentous occasion as we celebrate this union and…”

The audience listened respectfully as the man of the cloth prattled on, reminding the guests of each country’s proud heritage and how compatible those proud national identities would be within a strategic alliance. This was followed by a verbal rehearsal of the quest for Elysium and the role each royal had played in that journey. The tale did exaggerate some of their feats, but the bride and groom weren’t listening closely enough to process the details. The nerves had set in for both of them.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man ended his loquacious speech, signalling the more traditional portion of the ceremony. 

“Since the days of our ancestors, it has been customary for a man and a woman to signify their union through three ancient rites: the exchange of tokens, handfasting, and the recitation of vows. It is to these rites that we now turn. Prince Ozychlyrus, what token will you present to the Lady Mòrag to demonstrate your commitment to this union?”

No verbal response was necessary—just the presentation of his mother’s ring. This time, Mòrag accepted it, wondering what kind of woman Queen Eugenie must have been to make such a deep impression on Zeke. She would have liked to meet her.

Mòrag’s own turn came next. Choosing a token to give had been the hardest decision she made throughout the entire process. While it was most traditional to give rings, almost any meaningful gift could serve as a token. In the more stressful moments, she’d almost considered giving him a second turtle; maybe Turters would get into less mischief with a companion. And yet, after the incredibly meaningful token Zeke gave, what could she give that would possibly compare? 

A quick sort through her own dusty jewelry box had presented her the answer: a ring of her own. Compared to the ruby now glimmering on her own finger, the band was plain—just a simple, unornamented circle of gold. She had almost forgotten it was there. Emperor Nealon pulled it from the body before the burial and gave it to her; in her grief, she hid it in the box and ignored it. After all, the ring belonged to the only man she ever truly trusted. 

When she slid it onto Zeke’s finger, she expected the voice to surface again, to taunt and mock her for betraying that trust. But for once, it kept silent.

“This was my father’s,” Mòrag whispered.

Zeke smiled gratefully. 

With the exchange complete, the priest turned to Brighid, who had been entrusted with the handfasting cord. In both Mor Ardain and Tantal, the exchange of rings was nothing more than a symbol; the actual binding, the irrevocable point of the ceremony, occurred when the officiant bound the couple’s hands together. Handfasting was a ritual steeped in tradition, and when it was used to bind two nations together, it took on a special significance. Even the handfasting cord itself would become something of a national artefact; Niall and Eulogimenos had braided it themselves the day they finalized the alliance and publicized the engagement. By using materials from their respective countries, each sovereign signified his intention to create a tight-knit, strong union between their nations. 

“And now for the second rite of handfasting,” the priest announced. “Your Highnesses, if you are resolved to be bound together thus in this sacred union, please join hands.”

Both royals hesitated. This was the point of no return. 

_Are we both sincere about this?_ The question lingered in both their eyes. Zeke nodded, gave a half-smile, and extended his right hand. Sweat glistened on his outstretched palm. _For Niall,_ she thought. Her hand slipped into his. With deliberate, practiced movements, the minister wound the cord around their hands and wrists. 

“Now, Your Highness Ozychlyrus Brounev Tantal, and Your Highness and Special Inquisitor Mòrag Ladair, your vows.”

As a young girl, Mòrag had not attended many wedding ceremonies; attendance was considered an activity for the adults. But they featured prevalently in both Ardainian fairy tales and history books. She’d read them all. So she knew most of the recitation by heart, along with the additions to pay respects to Tantal’s traditions:

_You cannot possess me for I belong to myself, my country, and my king._

_You cannot command me, for I am a free person._

_But while the ether wills it, I give you that which is mine to give:_

_My hand, my heart, and my home._

_I shall take your people as my own, and you mine;_

_I promise you my partnership for good or ill._

_I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care;_

_I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine._

_This is my solemn vow to you._

_This is the marriage of equals._

“It is done. By the authority vested in me by the Architect and the crowns of Mor Ardain and Tantal, as demonstrated by the recitation of vows and the ancient rite of handfasting, and hereby confirmed in the presence of these witnesses, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

Several rows back, an unruly Nopon and his companion unleashed premature cheers. A single glare from the priest quieted them.

“What the Architect has joined together, let no man put asunder,” the priest continued, removing the handfasting cord as he spoke. “Prince Ozychlyrus, you may kiss the bride.”

Zeke drew close, trying to mask the nervous twitching in his face with a smile. “Shall we then, Mrs. Zekenator?” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes, stifling a laugh. “Dramatic as ever.”

Anyone in attendance that day would have said that “dramatic” was the only apt description for that first public display of affection. Had Mòrag taken an Ardainian husband, the kiss would have been something of a scandal—Mor Ardain put such high regard on physical propriety in public situations. But since Zeke had already established a reputation as a showman, the crowd tolerated it, perhaps even welcomed it. The prince pulled his new wife close to initiate the kiss, tender and reserved. But just when she was about to pull away—sticking to his advice to “tone it down” for the wedding—he swooped her down into a dramatic dip, lips never leaving hers. 

The auditorium erupted with applause, cheers, laughter, squeals (the last from Kora). Other things erupted, too. Crossette, who had apparently gotten quite adept at smuggling, ignited a few of her smaller firecrackers. Poppi followed suit, thanks to Tora, who had swapped out her standard ammunition for harmless bottle rockets. Pyra unleashed clouds of glittering embers high in the air. Rex whooped loudly, and Nia gave a shrill, cat-call whistle. Brighid shook her head. Then, to everyone’s surprise, she indulged her impulse to trace a cascade of flaming blue hearts for the entire duration of the kiss.

Mòrag, for her part, did not protest the dramatic embrace. Deep down, she enjoyed it. At least life with Zeke would be anything but boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eulogimenos as an awkward, clueless Boomer-dad has had me in stitches all. stinkin'. week. Big oof.
> 
> Random trivia for anyone who's interested: several elements of the wedding are derived from some Celtic/Gaelic traditions--handfasting, vows, etc. I actually adapted the vows from a really lovely traditional Celtic vow. 
> 
> This was incredibly fun to write, and I hope it makes you laugh or smile at least once. 
> 
> On a more serious note, the next chapter marks one of the most critical incidents in the entire story. It's a canon divergence that's been in the works since the beginning. Some of you might hate me for it (only one way to find out, right?). I'm currently debating between making that chapter incredibly long or splitting it into two. So if there's an abnormally long gap between updates, just know that the coming chapter will be MASSIVE. 
> 
> 'Til next time! --Jeli


	12. The Ardanach Family Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Here we go. The point of no return. Big canon divergence incoming. Consider this a trigger warning for mentions of sexual abuse and self-harm/suicide again. It’s been in the tags all along (I chose not to include it as an archive warning for the whole work because this chapter is really the only one that includes it). I don’t want to spoil the chapter for you, but I did want to put a warning in all the same as a courtesy to those who might be sensitive to these issues. 
> 
> I won’t sugarcoat it; some of this chapter’s sections are just plain raw. Characters—even well-intentioned ones—make questionable or even harmful decisions. That said, this will be the darkest section, so I hope you’ll stick with me. Things get better—not instantly, of course, but they do.
> 
> *deep breath* No going back now.

“Full disclosure, I _hate_ being carried. Now put me down,” Mòrag protested.

“I thought you liked being traditional. So I’m just carrying you over the threshold.”

“It’s our room, Zeke. Not a house. Now stop being dramatic and put me down.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Zeke released her. In his usual dramatic fashion, he’d scooped her up after exiting the reception hall, never bothering to put her down until the bedroom door was shut behind them. 

The reception itself had been, to everyone’s surprise, less animated than the gala. Brighid’s “securing” of Turters was a contributing factor—no one needed to check the champagne glasses for stray reptiles. And without Zeke constantly at her side, Pandoria was much more reserved than usual. 

The other members of the Aegis party, however, found a few ways to make trouble. As soon as the champagne was poured, it became readily apparent that Mythra and Kora intended to capitalize on old traditions, clinking their glasses with any implement they could find. More than once, Rex or Dromarch confiscated their cups, typically after a harsh glare from Brighid—the over exuberant Blades hardly gave the newlyweds a chance to eat or chat with their guests. But Kora stubbornly persisted, swiping glassware and silverware wherever she could find it. This caused a game of cat-and-mouse, with the young Driver desperately chasing Kora around to prevent further disruptions...unsuccessfully. Meanwhile, Mythra and Pyra bickered inside themselves, with each Aegis trying to take control over their body—Mythra to continue the quest for public smooches and Pyra to put a stop to it. The Aegis might have kept perfectly still, but the bursts of ether she emitted as she popped back and forth between selves proved just as distracting as Kora’s antics.

Most of the Tantalese guests had not seen many Nopon, making Tora something of an anomaly. He was quite eager to share his own culture with them, but more importantly, to demonstrate Poppi’s capabilities. Any bottle rockets Poppi had left after their outburst in the chapel were set off, and when those ran out, she demonstrated her boosters and her ability to transform between forms. Each transformation was louder than the last. 

Nia was the real surprise. Instead of causing trouble, she kept Niall company—for which the young ruler was secretly grateful. He’d been hoping that for at least one evening, his Senators and courtiers would avoid talking about works or politics. When he was alone, they pestered him. But with Nia at his side, he enjoyed some peace and quiet. And it was no secret that, of all their little group, Nia was by far the best dancer. Niall was equally good—a fact Mòrag had always envied—so the pair, though quite different in appearance and upbringing, managed to impress quite a few onlookers.

Other than Kora’s antics and Tora’s excitement to show off his “Nopon know-how,” the party proceeded as planned. Or perhaps Brighid simply put a stop to the tomfoolery before it even happened; Mòrag wasn’t really sure which. Ultimately, the dinner, dancing, and drinks lasted for several hours before the party began winding down, and the couple made their exit.

Which had brought them here, to the suite that was now their shared apartments.

“So...we’re married now. Sounds kinda weird, eh?”

“J-just don’t go calling me ‘Mrs. Zekenator’ in public. I won’t answer to it.”

“What about when we’re alone? What do I call you then?”

“My name, silly. Or if you must use a nickname, I suppose ‘Flames’ is fine.”

“Heh. I thought you hated that.” He moved closer. “Well then, Flames, we’ve been kissing all night. You still up for more than that?”

She nodded, wondering if she should have taken the extra glass of champagne she’d been offered. It might have helped soothe her nerves. 

“...Since we talked last night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this,” Zeke whispered. 

“Me neither,” she admitted. _Deep breaths, Mòrag. Or else he’s going to know how nervous you are. Just...just follow his lead._

Zeke kicked off his shoes and pulled off his overcoat and shirt; Mòrag did her best to follow suit. Her fingers shook, slipping on the tiny buttons lining the back of her dress. Why were there so damned many of them? Having to undress in front of him made her feel vulnerable enough already. Looking like a fool doing so only made it worse. 

“Let me help.”

He circled around her and picked up where she’d left off. His fingers were shaky, too—a realization that calmed her a little—but he made quicker work of them than she could alone. As the fabric fell open, he brushed his lips against the skin he’d exposed, gently trailing down her back until he reached her chemise. The gentle touches left goosebumps behind, despite the warmth they caused. She pulled away when enough buttons were open to step out of the dress. Once she had, she picked it up and hung it gently over a chair. It seemed disrespectful to leave it in a messy heap on the floor. And she was stalling. The kisses felt nice, but would the rest be as pleasant? 

_You can do this. The first time is the hardest. Just get it over with._

By the time she finally turned back around, Zeke was already down to his boxers. 

“You’re eager,” Mòrag murmured, unable to look him in the eyes. Her gaze settled on his chest and abs. Architect, he was...attractive, she had to admit. But his core crystal implant was distracting. It felt like, somehow, Pandoria was there, smirking and egging the prince on. 

“And you’re...well, damn. You _were_ hiding a woman underneath all that armor after all.” Zeke approached her, his eyes widening. There was a faint blush on his cheeks.

Mòrag felt her own cheeks redden, too. It wasn’t like she was naked yet. Her chemise still hung loose about her, and she wasn’t sure she had the nerve to remove it herself. “Of course I was, Zeke. What are you blushing for? Pandoria shows more skin than this with just her clothes.”

“Architect, stop talking,” Zeke said. Before she could react, his lips were pressed against hers. Mòrag stiffened, then returned the embrace, still shocked by how good it felt to kiss him. Her heart fluttered, and that pleasant warmth enveloped her again, now all-encompassing and intensifying with each second. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all…

She wrapped her arms around him so her fingers traced the lines of muscle on his back. The skin felt smooth and hot underneath her touch. They were so close now—only the thin fabric of her chemise separated them as his hands explored the curves of her back and hips. Zeke broke the kiss, breathless and grinning. Mòrag returned a feeble smile of her own. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I thought you said to stop talking,” she quipped, this time initiating a kiss herself.

A noise rumbled in Zeke’s throat, and Mòrag felt the floor go out from under her as he lifted her and set her on the bed, his lips never leaving hers. Eager as he had appeared, Zeke was in no rush. The first time only happened once, after all. And her mouth—she’d eaten more cake than she’d let on, but even without it, her taste was so sweet. He wanted to savor it. She hummed as his tongue scraped across her teeth.

He hadn't expected to feel quite like this. The sex had been a political expectation, and while he knew he'd enjoy it, he had not expected to find himself _craving_ her so intensely. But now that she was underneath him, looking a bit shy, he felt his desire rising.

This time he traced his lips down her neck to the strap of her slip. She moaned and gripped his back again. But to his disappointment, she made no move for his boxers. Aside from the kiss, she hadn’t initiated anything, just responded to what he did. Maybe she was unsure what to do? Contrary to what its gossip columns implied, Ardainian society _did_ emphasize strict physical propriety, especially for unmarried individuals. He had no reason to believe Mòrag had not conformed to her country’s expectations until now. The thought sent nervous energy tingling up and down his spine. He slowly traced a hand up her leg, pulling up the hem of her chemise. She shivered as he continued upwards, his fingers finally settling on her underwear. He hesitated a moment, then slipped underneath the seam to touch her. 

Up until then, Mòrag had been mostly quiet, purring almost like a cat at his touches. But when he bypassed that last garment, she let out an odd yelp and clenched her legs together. Her fingernails dug into his bare back, drawing blood. 

Startled, Zeke sat up and looked at her. He'd never heard her make such a pained noise, not even when she had been wounded during their quest for Elysium (and she’d incurred injuries frequently, adept as she was at drawing monster aggression). But now, her eyes were wide and glassy, and she wasn't quite looking at him, but somewhere just beyond him. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Zeke thought that, at that moment, she looked younger than Niall. 

“Mòrag? You okay?” He asked, startled. 

“I…I can't do this,” she gasped. Her voice was quiet, much higher than usual. 

“What? I—”

“Get off me,” she pleaded. “Please! Get off, get off, get off!”

Bewildered, he rolled over in a hurry. The second he did, she scrambled into a seated position against the headboard, hugging her knees, panting. 

_Dammit—she wasn’t ready. Is this a panic attack? What do I do?_ He wanted to say something, anything, to make her feel better, but no words came. And hugging her probably wouldn’t bring any comfort, either. Suddenly it felt very wrong to touch her; in this state she might lash out at even an innocent contact. So he simply kept silent, helpless to do anything but wait until her breathing slowed and her pupils relaxed. It felt like hours. But once she finally recovered, she blushed crimson, covering her face with her hands. 

“It's been fifteen years. Why can't I just _do_ this?” 

“Mòrag, it's ok. If you're not ready, we don't have to do it tonight...I'll just go crash in Pandy’s room. She won’t mind. We can try again later, okay?” He moved to leave.

“Don't go!” she exclaimed. “Let me ex—”

“I'm _not_ going to force you, Mòrag. I don't think guys should ever do that, married or not. It's a mutual thing, yeah? So we'll do it whenever it is mutual. The Senate can wait that long for a baby Zekenator."

“It's not that. I…I'll admit, the thought of sex with you makes me extremely nervous, but—”

“Your reaction just now shows me that ‘nervous’ might be too soft a word.”

“Okay, I'm terrified to have sex with you,” Mòrag admitted. “But not because of you! It's me. I liked kissing you far more than I expected, so I really thought—I hoped that I might be able to with you. But...Look, i-if we're really going to do this whole marriage thing and be intimate with each other—both physically and emotionally—then I need to be honest with you.”

“We all have secrets, Mòrag. You don't have to spill yours on my account.”

_Tell him the truth. He deserves an explanation._

This voice was new, so unlike the other one. It offered no criticisms, no hateful words, no self-preservation. Just a gentle verbal prompting to do what she already knew was the right thing. But how would he react? Would his gaze, which now held so much concern, harden into contempt the second the truth came out? Or would he understand? It would be so easy to say nothing; he was willing to get up and walk away until she was ready.

_He needs to know why you aren’t ready for this. Tell him._

“You're my husband now,” Mòrag struggled to say the word aloud, “and this isn't something I should keep hiding from you. I…I'm not actually a virgin.”

Zeke rolled his eyes. “That’s what’s bothering you? I mean, yeah, I thought you might be. But what difference does it make? Only your prudish Ardainian high society really cares.”

“That's not even half of it. Everything you think you know about me is a lie.”

Zeke just grabbed his pillow and shifted into a comfortable position so he sat cross-legged facing her, waiting for her to proceed.

“Niall…isn't my cousin,” Mòrag said at last.

“What does Niall have to do with us?”

“Architect, don't interrupt.” 

She took a deep breath to steel herself to utter the truth that only Brighid knew. 

“Niall is not my cousin or my brother. He's my son.”

Zeke's eyes widened as her words sunk in. But he held his tongue. His expression passed no judgment; it simply awaited an explanation. 

“By now, you may have heard a few whispers about me around the palace, calling me a slut and a whore. But it's not like that, I swear. I-it's a bit of a long story, really…”

* * *

_Sixteen Years Earlier_

“Did you hear the news? The Jewel’s back!”

The entire tavern fell silent. Alba Cavanich’s watering holes were a great source of information about the royal family and the Senate, thanks to the staff members who frequented them after work.

“What? Who’s her new Driver?” the barmatron asked. It was no secret that she adored the Lady Brighid. 

“The princess.”

“The little Lady Mòrag? Come off it,” another woman added. “She’s barely twelve years old. Far too young, if you ask me.”

“Well, unless Lady Annabelle can miraculously conceive, the princess is the next in line to the throne,” someone pointed out. “And the royal household is always making their children resonate with cores very young. The previous Emperor resonated at nine.”

The oldest guest in the tavern took a long gulp of his ale and scoffed. “I don’t care if it’s a prerequisite to the throne. It’s a bloody crime to expose a child to such a violent state of affairs.”

A palace staffer chimed in. “I’d dare say the princess has already witnessed more violence than you have, old man.”

“Whad’ya mean?”

“My boss told me that her father, Lord Eandraig was murdered right in front of her. He died fighting off an assassin, probably sent by those damned Brionac radicals.”

“Oh, that poor little dear. She probably wants to be a Driver to avenge him,” a woman sighed, clasping her hands against her bosom in sympathy. “They were always so close after Lady Morgan died. Orphaned so young.”

“I think the Emperor intends to adopt her,” someone else added. “At the very least, she is his ward now.”

A ninth speaker piped up, “I heard that the princess hasn’t even cried once. Not when Master Eandraig died, not at the funeral, nothing.”

Unlike much of the gossip that filtered out of the local taverns, those rumors were completely true, although many of the details were murky. Despite the fact that Emperor Nealon and his wife, Lady Annabelle, had married more than two decades earlier, they remained childless. Lord Eandraig Ladair and his child were, as a consequence, the Emperor’s only heirs. Some of the more radical, enterprising Anti-Royalists saw that as an opportunity: eradicating the heirs would require the monarch to name a non-royal successor. Better yet, killing off the entire family could topple the Ardanach household in a single blow.

No one could tie the attack to a specific Senator, making it impossible to prosecute. However, irrevocable damage was still done: Lord Eandraig, a brilliant Driver, fought off a small squad of elite assassins. Not a single scratch was inflicted against the Emperor, his wife, or Mòrag—Eandraig took each wound himself, dragging his attackers down with him. He died minutes afterwards.

Rather than crying, the young heiress announced her intention to become a Driver. When asked why, she simply whispered,

“No one’s going to die protecting me. Not ever again.”

The Emperor could not argue with the resolve in the girl’s gaze. From birth, she’d been taught to be strong, to never let anyone see any weakness. The Ardainian throne could never be perceived as easily overcome. Strong feelings and emotions had to be subdued, kept secret. It seemed Mòrag was doing just that, channeling her grief into a constructive pursuit. But for Eandraig’s daughter and the likely future Empress, not just any Blade would do. So despite the protests of his counsellors, Emperor Nealon presented Brighid’s core to her. There was never any doubt in Nealon’s mind that Mòrag had the aptitude for it. He could see the potential in the fire of her eyes. So as a last gift to his brother, he would train her, teach her to be not just an Empress but also a warrior. It was what Eandraig would have wanted.

In a matter of days, however, it became apparent that the girl was something of a prodigy. She picked up skills at a voracious rate; Arts that took most adults years to master unfurled from her whipswords as naturally as breathing. And she threw herself at the training, too. In the spare moments between her tutoring in law, history, tactics, etiquette, economics, and all the other courses that accompanied her station, Mòrag could be found at the training grounds, swords in hand. 

Brighid herself quickly became synonymous with Mòrag’s own shadow. From the moment she manifested from her crystal, the Blade was struck with curiosity. This Driver standing before her...she looked so determined, so eager to prove herself. And yet she was so young—pretty in her own right, but not yet grown into the charms of her own gender. Secretly, Brighid found it cute how seriously the girl took everything; it was a fact which often got her into trouble. As powerful as she was, Mòrag tended to throw herself recklessly into fights, throw a few overwhelmingly strong Arts, and exhaust her ether in a matter of seconds. In most cases, it worked; but before long her opponents would no longer underestimate her on account of her age. If they dodged her first few attacks, she was left vulnerable. Brighid took it upon herself to rid her Driver of those reckless tendencies. 

The Driver and Blade quickly became fast friends. It had been a long time since Mòrag had known any meaningful female companionship. Emperor Nealon’s wife had gone to live in Gormott on account of her frail health, and her own mother died when she was relatively young. Likewise, the princess generally found her female peers tedious to be around; most noblemen’s daughters preferred to gossip or go to dances. But Brighid’s mature, calm nature suited her Driver’s driven one quite well. And having another woman in the palace spared the Emperor from a very uncomfortable conversation when Mòrag’s femininity blossomed, too. 

In spite of Mòrag’s reckless fighting style, it was only a few weeks before the Emperor decided he could not teach her anything more.

“I’ve made arrangements to bring in a private instructor for you, Mòrag,” he told her after their last lesson together. “I think you’ll learn a lot from him. He’s a very good friend of mine.”

“If I might ask, who is it, Your Majesty?”

“For now, he’s the strongest Driver in the Empire, although you may soon rival him for that title. Sir Pachnall is his name.”

“Sir Pachnall.” Mòrag gasped in recognition. “But isn’t he—”

“A general in our forces, yes,” the Emperor laughed. “If memory serves, he’s the youngest ever to achieve the rank. Our military will certainly miss him, but I can think of no better instructor for you. In fact, when I proposed the position to him, he insisted on training you himself. He, like me, believes the future Empress deserves nothing but the best.”

“I am honored that you think so much of my skill, Uncle. But I owe much of it to Brighid.”

Emperor Nealon smiled. “You inherited your skill from your father, my dear. And his sense of modesty.”

Mòrag’s eyes fell. “...I miss traveling with him. What I’d give to see the world with him, one last time.”

“He planned to take you to Gormott the day of the attack, did he not?”

She nodded, tears threatening to surface. She dutifully blinked them back. “There was a lake there he promised to show me. Yewtle, I think. But it makes no difference now. When will this new instructor arrive?”

“Next week.”

Sir Pachnall won his way to his current military standing on two grounds: his skill as a Driver and his charisma. And when he arrived at Hardhaigh Palace, that charm quickly won him the favor of everyone within, Mòrag included. With a smooth grin and a flash of his deep blue eyes, he put even the most guarded staff members at ease. He was like a character from a storybook: courageous, powerful, and, when he wanted to be, funny.

Under his tutelage, Mòrag’s skills as a Driver thrived. Her recklessness turned into tempered, calculated strikes. Her proclivity with her Arts improved, too: not only did she learn how not to exceed the limits of her Blade’s ether, but she also mastered the ability to complete the same Arts with less ether to begin with. Pachnall showered her with praise, but only when she earned it. In her mind, he was the only one who treated her as just Mòrag, not the future Empress. He reminded her of Eandraig. 

Word about town was that between Brighid and Pachnall, the young princess found the support, guidance, and companionship she needed. The attempt on her life had rattled her deeply, but between her Blade and her teacher, she felt safe again. And for the better part of a year, that proved true.

However, as the anniversary of Eandraig’s death approached, the princess’s demeanor took a sharp turn. She had never been a talkative child, but she became downright taciturn, and when she did speak, she often failed to mask her own frustrations. Tutors reported that she neglected her lessons—all except her fighting lessons, which she threw herself into with renewed intensity, almost anger. She began to skip meals entirely, and those she did attend saw her eating relatively little. Most people at Hardhaigh Palace theorized that, since the princess never seemed to outwardly grieve for her father following his death, all of her pent-up emotions finally unleashed at once. Even the Emperor believed that it was a combination of deferred grief and adolescent hormones.

Brighid, too, found her Driver’s reactions to be quite concerning. In their short time together, she had learned that Mòrag was not one to talk much about her feelings—a side effect of being expected to hide her emotions from the public at all times. But through their affinity bond, Brighid could sense much of what Mòrag didn’t verbalize. Reading Mòrag’s feelings was very much like listening to music, a symphony of pleasant tones mixed with somber motifs. Only lately, the symphony was so badly out of tune that Brighid’s stomach curdled to listen to it. 

On one of Mòrag’s moodier days, Brighid had arrived at the end of her patience. She had been trying for months—without success—to decipher the cause of her Driver’s poor behavior, and Mòrag stubbornly insisted that nothing was amiss besides being in the middle of her cycle—a fact Brighid knew to be false. Mòrag had never lied to her before.

The deception pained her. So when Brighid walked into their shared apartments and found Mòrag with her journal in hand, she snapped.

“Mòrag Reilynn Ladair, I am ashamed of you!” She ripped the book from her Driver’s grasp. “Snooping in on my past lives? You, of all people, who values privacy so highly should know better than to intrude on such a thing! How dare you?”

Brighid instantly regretted it. 

“I didn’t—I just—” the girl stammered, her hands shaking. She burst into tears and fled the room. 

Brighid looked down at the passage Mòrag had been reading when she caught her. It was silly, nothing more than a simple account of a shopping trip she took to find a birthday gift for her previous Driver—not the sort of thing her current one would find interesting.

But it was what she found inside the adjacent page that truly made her regret snapping at her Driver.

 _“I need help,”_ scrawled out on a single scrap of paper.

But why on Alrest didn’t Mòrag say so directly? Granted, the princess could not admit weakness outright—but did that really apply to her own Blade, in the privacy of her own quarters? Brighid stared at the words. Three short syllables. The script was shaky and blotted, as if writing the phrase had been done covertly. The ink wasn’t fresh, either. Mòrag must have written it days or even weeks ago, only just now working up the courage to place it in her journal in hopes that she would find it.

 _And I had to go and lose my temper the moment she did. Now she might be too upset to tell me anything,_ Brighid thought bitterly. _Architect, what do I do?_

By the time Brighid finally decided that she ought to confront Mòrag about it right away, her Driver had gone to the training grounds for her afternoon lesson with Pachnall. The teacher and student were already sparring when she arrived, their weapons throwing sparks with each strike. Brighid scowled. Pachnall had insisted on much more ether-free fighting as of late, insisting that Mòrag’s physical technique needed more polish than her ether-based attacks. It was true, but Brighid disliked being excluded from the daily sparring sessions. She needed to keep her skills sharp, too.

“Now, princess,” Pachnall critiqued, “A good Driver does not telegraph her movements in advance. I should not see your attacks before you make them. Focus.”

Mòrag pressed again, this time executing the same stroke from the left side. Pachnall parried easily and countered, knocking her off her feet. In a split-second he had his foot on her chest and his sword an inch from her neck. She tapped out, pinned.

“You’re distracted today,” Pachnall said, helping her rise. He put a hand on her forehead. “Are you not feeling well?”

The princess batted his hand away. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Brighid cleared her throat. “Could I speak with Lady Mòrag for a moment, Pachnall?”

The teacher shook his head. “We’re in the middle of a lesson, Lady Brighid. You know I hate pausing a session.”

“Then allow me to join in. I’ll speak with her as soon as we’re finished.”

“Maybe fighting with Brighid would help me out of my slump,” Mòrag suggested. “She always improves my accuracy.”

“Very well. Just keep it conservative on the ether levels, all right? I don’t have Ciaran with me to block.”

Brighid agreed to the terms. She never intended to spend much of the training session really fighting, anyway. Whatever it was she needed help with, Mòrag clearly wanted privacy for. Brighid intended to respect that—provided she could even get Mòrag to talk after her own angry outburst. So as the spar began anew, Brighid simply tried to push comforting, supportive emotions through their affinity bond, like wordless messages only they could hear. 

Any time Brighid opened herself to connect with Mòrag emotionally, her own Driver’s feelings came rolling back at her like a two-way stream of music. Mòrag’s side of the bond boiled with her usual melody, only this time played at a frantic tempo and in a minor key. But there was something else, too...were those new notes, another melody?

Brighid broke the connection; certainly she’d heard wrong. But when she reached out to her Driver again, she caught the same tones, so faint and yet distinct amidst the louder notes of fear. This second tune was hardly a melody at all—just a single, pure note, pealing like a bright little bell in a steady rhythm. 

Mòrag’s ether signature had changed. 

_Architect, it can’t be..._ But if it were true, it explained a lot—the moodiness, the defensive attitude, the lying, the stubborn insistence that nothing was wrong. 

When the lesson finished, however, Mòrag made herself scarce with the excuse that she needed to freshen up before her evening meal with the Emperor. It wasn’t until late in the evening that Brighid finally found her opportunity to speak with her alone. 

“Lady Mòrag, we must talk,” Brighid said at last. She’d hesitated for what felt like hours, wondering what on Alrest she was supposed to say. Where should she even begin?

“I’m sorry I snooped in your journal,” Mòrag said flatly, putting down the book she’d pretended to read. “It was inconsiderate, and I won’t do it again.”

Brighid sat down beside her young Driver. “It was rude to look at it without my consent, and I forgive you. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. I found the note you left there...and I think I know what it’s about.”

Mòrag looked away, as if she wanted to deny the note’s existence but couldn’t. 

“Lady Mòrag...there’s no good way to say this, so I’ll be direct. You know that all life forms emit an ether signature, yes?”

Mòrag nodded. “And all life emits and absorbs ether energy. It’s how we can share ether during combat. That’s the first thing you taught me when we bonded.”

“Well...when we shared ether during training earlier today, I noticed something. I thought I sensed it a few weeks ago. But today, I became sure of it. Your body...I feel two ether signatures coming from you.”

Mòrag bit her lip, as if she hoped Brighid couldn’t see it trembling.

“Mòrag, are you pregnant?”

“...I think so.”

Brighid hesitated. There wasn’t a good way to phrase her next question. And in truth, she didn’t really need to ask. Mòrag had never expressed interest in her male peers. She wouldn’t conceive willingly. But Brighid was certain about the second ether signature. Even now, she could feel it pulsing faintly through their bond; the peals of the little bell had an undertone similar to Mòrag’s, and yet it was unique. A pregnancy could only mean…

“Did someone...rape you?” 

Mòrag’s gaze didn’t leave her stomach. She gave the subtlest of nods that only a Keen Eye could see. And then came the tears. 

“...What happened?”

More tears.

“Mòrag, I know we haven’t been together very long, but I hope you understand that you are my sole reason for being. Without you, I wouldn’t exist. And as your Blade, I swear, I will protect you from now on. But I can’t do that if you don’t tell me who did this,” Brighid pleaded.

Mòrag looked her Blade in the eye. “If...if I tell you, can you promise not to tell anyone else? He told me if I said anything, if anyone found out—” a fresh sob broke her sentence off.

Brighid pulled her Driver close. “I can’t promise that, my dear. I may require others’ help in order to get you the help you need. But only those who can help. And I’ll stay by your side every minute of the day if I have to in order to keep you safe. I swear on my core I won’t let him hurt you.” _Never again,_ Brighid thought.

Mòrag didn’t reply, sobs still wracking her body. Brighid couldn’t help but notice how small the girl felt in her arms. She was just a child herself. Mòrag’s next word was a whisper, but the sound shattered Brighid’s heart. 

“Pachnall.”

Guilt washed over Brighid as she held her trembling Driver. Pachnall had been...well, suffice it to say, she’d considered him a friend. She’d sparred with the man, entrusted her Driver’s safety to him. The Emperor sang Pachnall’s praises, so she assumed he was good. Mòrag had trusted him implicitly, looking to him as a second father figure. And he had betrayed that trust in the worst way. 

_Damn that man,_ Brighid thought. _And damn me for not seeing him for the monster he is._

No one in history had ever seen the Jewel of Mor Ardain cry. Mòrag was the first. She couldn’t hold back the tears as the reality sank in. As much as she wanted to deny that _Pachnall_ of all people could be responsible, the pieces fit. From the beginning, Pachnall had doted on his student. Everyone in the palace loved and relied on him. He was both a prestigious Driver and a well-respected member of the military; after a few more years, he could have easily won a position in the Senate. So no one had ever objected to the fact that on a normal day, Pachnall had at least an hour alone with Mòrag, often more than that.

“Please stay here with me,” Mòrag begged. “I...I don’t want him to find me in here again. I can’t take it anymore. I-it hurts so much.”

It took all of Brighid’s restraint to prevent flames from bubbling around her fingers as the anger broiled within her—wrath at Pachnall, of course, but also at herself. He’d been _here,_ torturing her Driver while she was only two rooms over. And she had no idea. She’d been complacent, blissfully ignorant. What kind of Blade failed her Driver so? How had she not noticed?

“I’m going to protect you, Mòrag. He’s never going to lay a finger on you again.”

That night was one of the longest of Brighid’s life. A better half of it was spent trying to soothe her Driver; the months of bottling up the anger and fear all came rushing out at once. After half an hour, the shaking stopped. Then the tears dried up, replaced by pathetic sniffles and sporadic hiccups. Finally, the girl fell into a restless slumber, still clinging to her Blade. Even after she fell asleep, Brighid remained at her side, brooding over what needed to be done. She almost dared Pachnall to enter the room now. Oh, the pain she would inflict on him if he did—the palace would be talking about his screams for a millenium. 

When morning came, Brighid spread the misinformation that Mòrag was sick in bed and was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Convincing her Driver that she had to leave her alone for a short while took some doing; only after Brighid had appointed two soldiers to stand guard outside did she even consider it. To help her feel even more secure, Brighid walked around the room with her, locking every single entrance from the inside. Brighid took the one key with her, and Mòrag kept the other on her person. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m going to go take care of this,” Brighid promised. “No one will be able to come in or out except you or me, all right?”

With her Driver thus protected, Brighid wasted no time. She went straight to the throne room and burst in, never bothering to announce herself or bow. The Emperor was already hard at work with his counsellors, who glared at the audacity of her entrance. 

“Brighid, I trust there is a good explanation for this,” Emperor Nealon warned, holding his guards at bay with a raised hand. 

“Your Majesty, I must speak with you at once. Alone.”

She got her wish; the room emptied quickly, although she received a few angry glares from the older counsellors. 

“You seem troubled, Lady Brighid. Whatever is the matter?”

“You need to arrest Pachnall, Your Majesty.”

“That’s ‘Sir Pachnall’ to you, Brighid. You may be the princess’s Blade, but even you should show—”

“I will never show respect to that monster after what he’s done.”

The Emperor raised a single eyebrow, demanding an explanation. 

“He’s been abusing Mòrag, Your Majesty. He raped her,” Brighid whispered. She forced back the tears that threatened to surface again.

“That’s impossible. Pachnall is a good man and an old friend of mine. Yes, he’s fond of her, but he would never do such a vulgar thing. What busybody told you this? On what grounds are you making these baseless accusations?” 

“She told me herself,” Brighid retorted, trying to control her frustration at his flat denial. “And if her word is not enough for you—and it ought to be—there’s physical proof. She’s pregnant.”

The Emperor collapsed into his chair; the armor that hid his emotions from view shattered, broken by that startling revelation.

“Y-you’re certain?”

Brighid nodded. “If you don’t order for his arrest, I’ll do it myself.”

“My bodyguard and I will accompany you. I...I need to look him in the eye and hear his confession myself.”

Brighid could hardly stand to wait as the Emperor made preparations: a small selection of elite guards, ether nets for Ciaran, and a haphazard plan to overwhelm him should he attempt to flee when they confronted him in his apartments. When they arrived, however, Pachnall took one look at Brighid and seemed to decide that fleeing would only get him killed. 

“I take it my ruse is up,” he said, an amused smile on his face. He held his hands up in peaceful surrender, taking a step back. “Come inside, Your Majesty. You look like you wish to talk. Let’s not disturb the others.”

One of the guards clapped ether-blocking cuffs around the man’s Blade. If Pachnall intended to put up a fight now, he’d be severely weakened. The remaining guards surrounded him, awaiting their master’s orders.

“Pachnall, please tell me this isn't true. Tell me there’s some mistake,” the Emperor said, his voice breaking somewhere between rage and betrayal. 

“What do you want me to say? That I never touched her? I have done many things, Nealon, but I have never lied to you. I won’t start now. I’ll tell you everything. But what do you want to hear first? How I played every last one of you for fools? How it felt to take the fragile virginity of a princess? How—”

“Silence!” the Emperor shouted. “Architect damn your soul for what you’ve done.”

“Save your curses. The Architect’s already damned us all.”

“Why do this, Pachnall? You could have easily won the love of any woman you desired...I don’t understand.”

The man’s normally charming smile morphed into a cruel grin. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Unlike most people, I like rare, expensive meat. And I like it fresh.”

Brighid snapped. A roar escaped her lips as she lunged at the man. He had no time to evade when she pounced on him, clapping her hand around his neck. Every ether particle in her body, no—her entire core—screamed for vengeance. The flames she’d held back when consoling Mòrag now rushed out in full force, lapping at the skin on his neck and chin as she hoisted him off the ground. Pachnall clutched at her grasp in a desperate attempt to break away for air. But the crystal in her arms surged with heat. When he touched them, the air stunk with the scent of burnt flesh. And her grip was unrelenting. 

“Lady Brighid, stop. You’re going to kill him.”

“Tell me, Your Majesty, if a dog bites a child, do we not put it down?” Brighid demanded. “Please allow me to do the same to this cur!”

“He’s a citizen and Driver of the Empire. He must stand trial.”

“A trial—after what he’s done? A trial’s too good for him. Do you honestly think I can sit back and watch while they give him a life sentence?”

“I swear to you, I will bring the full weight of my office to bear when he is sentenced. But only after he is tried.”

She squeezed Pachnall’s neck harder, letting the heat of her palm dig into his throat. His face shone bright red as he clutched at her white-hot grip. His eyes met hers, pleading for oxygen, for relief. Brighid shuddered. Doubtless he had seen that same desperation in Mòrag’s eyes as he ravaged her. But he ignored her pleas. Did he not deserve to have the same done to him? Brighid wanted nothing more than to burn him, to feel his neck crumble in her hands, to feed his ashes to dogs. It was more than he deserved. 

“Brighid. Stand down.”

The Emperor’s voice was firmer now, resolute, unyielding. She trembled. It would be so easy to just kill him, and yet…She shot one more burst of flame through her palm before tossing Pachnall against the wall as hard as she could. The Emperor’s guards rushed forward to cuff the man long before he could even catch his breath. 

“I hope they burn him at the stake,” Brighid spat. “And when they do, I’ll gladly light his death pyre.”

The ensuing days passed like a fevered dream as the Emperor attempted to deal with the situation as discreetly as possible. A very private trial occurred, and although the identity of Pachnall’s victim remained sealed during the proceedings, there were, inevitably, whispers. But to Brighid’s relief, an execution date was set for a few weeks later.

If not for Mòrag’s reaction to the sentencing, Brighid might have felt vile for praying for that verdict. But the day the judgment passed, Mòrag slept more soundly than she had since confiding in her Blade. Neither Driver nor Blade slept well often these days—the former due to nightmares and the latter from holding her as she slept, comforting her when the dreams turned sour. But when Mòrag heard that justice was going to be served, she had the first dream-free night she’d had in weeks.

_It’s not complete justice, though. An innocent girl is left to deal with the aftermath of someone else’s lust. Architect, is this the world you intended? Is Alrest meant to be this cruel?_

It was a thought Brighid had frequently as she debated how to make her Driver feel safe again. Mòrag did not volunteer many of her thoughts and fears, but through their bond, it was not hard for Brighid to deduce most of them. The Imperial throne was a symbol of strength and honor, and the Emperor was held to the highest standards of propriety, discretion, and purity. The royal family was held to those same standards—Mòrag even more so as the crown princess. When word got out that she was pregnant, the public would lose faith in her as the future Empress. Humans had a wretched habit of assuming the worst of each other. And even if they believed the true cause of the pregnancy, she’d be painted as someone weak and easily manipulated. Neither image was congruent with the Ardainian “ideal ruler.” And then there was the matter of the child—equally complicated, but likewise unavoidable.

Mòrag deduced the repercussions of her situation quickly; for someone so young, she took her duty as the future Empress seriously. Thus, as her belly grew, so did her fears. Brighid could sense those anxieties, but she felt helpless to do anything to prevent them.

“…Will you be coming with me?” Brighid asked. There was no reason to explain the question; they’d both been counting down the days and hours until the execution.

Mòrag shook her head. “I can’t face him again. Please come tell me when it’s done.”

“As you wish.”

“…I hope he rots in Morytha.”

It was probably for the best that she not attend; although the execution would be a private affair, people would question why such a young woman witnessed that dark experience. Better to preserve her anonymity for as long as possible. And that destructive gleam in Mòrag’s eyes when she spoke of the man rotting in Morytha—it was justified, but Brighid couldn’t help but think that seeing him executed might fan that violent streak, not quench it. She didn’t want violence to be the way Mòrag found peace again. It was already bad enough that she had begun carrying an extra, concealed knife with her everywhere.

“I’ll be back soon,” Brighid said quietly, then excused herself.

She had not gotten far before one of the palace pages ran up to her.

“The Emperor wishes to see you at once in his council chamber, Lady Brighid.”

Brighid nodded and changed her course. Over the past few weeks, she and the Emperor had reached a unique understanding. Brighid had never truly liked the Ardainian ruler; she found him aloof, especially compared to the stories Mòrag told of her father Eandraig. Nealon certainly wasn’t a doting father, adoptive or otherwise. Perhaps if he’d been more involved in Mòrag’s personal life and less concerned with grooming her to be an Empress, he might have prevented this current mess. Or Mòrag might have asked for help sooner. Not that Brighid could criticize him too harshly; she was just as fooled. It was a guilt they’d both share as long as they lived.

As a result of that understanding, the Emperor became less guarded around her. So when she entered the throne room and found him frowning, head in his hands, Brighid instantly knew something was wrong.

“…He escaped. Pachnall, Ciaran, they’re both gone.”

Brighid’s stomach turned to lead. “What?”

“They broke out in the third watch last night. I don’t know how they accomplished it. The guards believe they had help from within the palace.”

“Then start a manhunt for him,” Brighid said. “Order that he be shot on sight. He must pay for what he’s done.”

The Emperor shook his head, resigned. “He stole a ship from the docks. He’s likely on another continent by now, beyond our reach. And with his Blade’s talents, it will be nigh impossible to track him.”

“…Mòrag’s going to be terrified when she finds out. She had nightmares about him when he was in custody. How much worse will they be when she knows he got away?” Brighid asked, speaking more to herself than to the Emperor.

“…Then we let her believe that today’s execution occurred as planned,” the Emperor said simply.

“You want me to lie to her?”

“You’re said it yourself: she needs to feel safe again. And on Imperial soil, he is as good as dead. If his ‘death’ brings her closure, then sobeit.”

Brighid took the longest route possible back to Mòrag’s quarters. What to do—comply with the Emperor’s wishes or tell her Driver the truth? She would never forget Mòrag’s cries during her nightmares; those would only get worse if she learned Pachnall was alive and free. If she believed he was dead, however, the nightmares might go away with enough time. But Brighid also vividly recalled how much her core stung when Mòrag lied to her. How could she do the same to her Driver? And what if Mòrag ever found out the truth?

By the time she arrived back at her Driver’s side, she still had not decided what to do.

“Is it done?” Mòrag asked. “Is he gone?”

Her eyes were so desperate for the news. Not begging for the truth; begging for an escape from the man that plagued even her sleep. Her expression—it held a twisted sort of hope, like a little candle flame she relied on to guide her out of the shadows in her nightmares. 

Brighid couldn’t bring herself to quench that hope. “He’s gone,” she whispered.

The princess released the breath she’d been holding and nodded. “Good. Thank you for going in my stead.”

_Oh Mòrag, if you ever learn the truth, I pray you’ll forgive me for that._

The nightmares never completely went away, but there was a marked improvement in the quality of her sleep. She finally slept alone again, only calling on Brighid to join her when the dreams were particularly bad. But despite the improvements in her sleep, Mòrag’s demeanor remained somber and withdrawn. Many of her habits changed drastically. She studied independently in her room, with the exception of the subjects taught by female tutors. She still trained with Brighid, but they completed each session in an open space within the gardens; memories at the training grounds were still too fresh for both of them. And they always trained alone. There would be no more combat instructors.

Mòrag never expressed much interest in fashion, makeup, or grooming, but any taste she did have for it vanished. She abandoned makeup entirely and took to wearing her hair up. Brighid hated seeing it that way; her soft, almost ebony-toned hair was one of her prettiest features. But why she chose to hide it went without saying. Mòrag also traded out her skirts and dresses for boxier pants and tops that masked much of her figure.

And as the days ticked by, that wardrobe became another cause of distress.

“Mòrag, what’s wrong?” Brighid asked.

Her Driver stood, only half-dressed in front of her mirror, crying. She pulled at her waistband, trying in vain to pull the fastening shut.

“I-I can’t zip them anymore,” she gasped, still tugging at the pants as if she could stretch them enough. “I’m starting to show. Now everyone is going to _know_. And they’ll think I’m a dirty slut. What am I supposed to do?”

“Mòrag, no one is going to say—”

“A slut can’t be Empress, Brighid.”

“Stop calling yourself that!” It was a louder, harsher tone than she intended, but it hurt to hear her own Driver verbally disparage herself. 

“But it’s true. I’ve failed Mor Ardain.”

“You haven’t failed anyone, Mòrag. You’re not to blame for any of this.”

“Then why am I the one being punished?” 

Brighid pulled her Driver into a hug. The girl’s abdomen might have been expanding, but the rest of her was not. Her ribs were too prominent, barely hidden by her layer of hard-earned muscle. Perhaps it was time to back off training together. Or was it just the byproduct of the dreadful morning sickness? 

“…I don’t understand it, either.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll think of something, dear. I promise.”

 _She can’t keep going like this. Something has to change._

There was the distinct temptation to simply take her Driver and run away. If they disappeared from Mor Ardain, then most of the pressures smothering Mòrag would disappear, too. What if they simply left, went somewhere where no one knew her? Where she could feel safe again? Yes, there would still be the issue of the pregnancy, but at least it would be inconspicuous. But Mòrag would detest the idea. She loved her country too deeply to abandon it and live in hiding. 

That night, when Mòrag retired for the evening, Brighid scheduled a private audience with the Emperor for the following morning to discuss her Driver’s situation. Then came the errands she had put off while Mòrag was up: fetching nausea medication from the court physician (who’d been sworn to the utmost secrecy about the princess’s condition), returning an odd book to the library, and due to the day’s events, collecting new clothes for her Driver.

Not many shops were open in Alba Cavanich at this time in the evening, but Brighid found a small, casual boutique that would do the trick. Of course, she couldn’t be seen buying maternity clothes—people would connect the dots for sure doing that. But just one size bigger would buy them some time to make alternate arrangements. To her dismay, her presence drew the attention of the shopkeeper. She never managed to go anywhere in the capitol without drawing attention—such was the fate of an Ardainian symbol of power, royalty, and strength. Normally, Brighid didn’t mind being a part of national folklore. But tonight, when subtlety was her main objective, it was a hassle. Shopkeepers tended to be busybodies, and buying clothes for the princess instead of calling on the palace tailors would raise suspicions. 

Thankfully, the man simply directed her to the products she needed with a few mumbled remarks to the effect of “princesses shouldn’t run around in men’s clothing” and left her to her own devices. With a silent whisper of thanks that he was feeling lazy, Brighid took her purchases and returned to Hardhaigh. 

Out of nowhere, Brighid stumbled. Not a trip from clumsiness—she was too refined and polished to lose her balance in a flat, carpeted hallway—but from the strange sensation that washed over her entire body. All at once, the ether energy in her surroundings seemed cut off from her core; the energy in her body, however, seemed to be seeping out of her pores at an alarming rate. Her breath came in shallow gasps, as if there was no longer oxygen in the air. Years later, Brighid would compare that helpless feeling to the suffocating environment of Spirit Crucible Elpys. Today, however, the feeling sent her into a panic. Blades did not just faint without a cause. Certainly fatigue from battle could be a contributing factor, as could hunger. But dinner occurred mere hours ago, her training with Mòrag even earlier. 

_Mòrag._ Brighid reached out through the ether, struggling to locate her Driver’s ether signature from across the palace. Normally, their resonance was strong enough that she could pinpoint her location even from opposite sides of the castle. Mòrag’s ether signature usually shone like azure flame. 

But now it flickered like a wavering candle. 

Brighid dropped her parcels and broke into a run. What a scene it must have been, to see the most refined lady in the palace tearing through the halls at a breakneck pace. Servants shouted to learn what was the matter. Confused guards tried to follow, falling behind in seconds. But Brighid paid them no heed. Reaching Mòrag as fast as possible was the only thought she could process. 

At first glance, the princess’s apartments seemed in perfect order—the sitting room neat, the desk organized with books, all the lights out. But the bedroom was not so. At this hour, she ought to have found Mòrag sleeping, or if sleep evaded her, in bed reading. But the unmade bed held no Mòrag. And the metallic scent of blood hung in the air. 

“Mòrag, where are you?” Brighid asked.

No answer. A frantic glance around the bed told her why.

With such a young Driver, Brighid had not yet seen active battle in this lifetime. But something told her a battlefield was not as horrifying as this. A discarded knife. The girl’s white nightgown mottled with crimson blotches and streaks. Her pale skin, her ragged breathing. The deep gashes on both wrists, still seeping blood.

“No, no, no,” Brighid whispered. She pulled the girl’s limp form onto her lap and grabbed at the bedsheets, clenching the linens around the fresh wounds. Stray sparks of nervous flame shot out as she tried to rip off a piece and tie it tightly around one of her Driver’s arms. Anything to staunch the bleeding. 

Another wave of exhaustion rolled over Brighid, but this time it was much worse. Black circles dimmed her vision. The room spun. The physical form of her fingers and feet wavered and thinned. Her arms and legs pulled toward her torso of their own accord, as if her entire body was trying to recoil inward on itself. She was returning to her core crystal.

If Mòrag lost any more blood, she would die. They both would.

“Please, Mòrag. Stay with me.”

The fire Blade grasped a thin wrist in each hand; flames burst into being around her fingers. A sickening sizzle echoed through the air as the fires evaporated the blood, then sunk into Mòrag’s flesh instead. It reeked. A gargled cry escaped Brighid’s lips, but if its cause was from her own pain or her Driver’s, she wasn’t sure. One, two. Two brief seconds—an eternity as they both hovered between life and death.

Bile rose in her throat when she let go of the girl’s arms and saw raw, pink flesh gleam back up at her. _Architect, I just burned my own Driver. I hurt her!_ And yet, the dizzying sensation had not worsened. Every breath both Driver and Blade took remained ragged and strained, but the breaths continued. 

The guards posted at the door rushed in. One shook his head as he surveyed the scene. “I’ll go get the doctor.”

“I’ll fetch His Majesty,” the other volunteered.

Brighid hardly noticed when the guards left or when they returned. She cradled her young Driver in her lap, clinging to her as if the force of her embrace alone could keep Death from pulling her away. If only she were a healing Blade, she could instantly reverse the effects of the blood loss. But all she could do was reach through the ether, the thin line of their affinity bond coursing from Brighid’s core to Mòrag’s chest like a lifeline. 

They were saying something to her now, asking thousands of questions. But she couldn’t hear them. She didn’t want to. The guards were pulling on her arms, the physician prying the girl out of her grip and setting the limp frame on the bed. But Brighid simply stared at that thin blue thread, coursing any ether energy she could spare through it. 

The next few hours passed like a delirious, hazy dream. Afterwards, Brighid remembered very little of it. The Emperor mumbling prayers over and over. A blood transfusion. Stitches. Ointment for the burns. Bandages. A clean nightgown and fresh sheets. Gradually, the tension in the room lifted. Breathing came easier, and Brighid’s dizziness reduced to a manageable level. More importantly, the line between Brighid and Mòrag grew thicker and brighter. 

“Her pulse has steadied. It’s stronger now, too. The next six hours are critical, but I do believe the worst is behind us,” the doctor announced.

“Praise be,” the Emperor whispered. “And the child?”

Brighid reached out through the ether. Both ether signatures hummed back at her—soft, but steady and distinct. “Alive.”

“Lady Brighid, I can’t begin to imagine what it must have felt like to cauterize your Driver’s wounds. But the princess owes you her life. Much longer and she would have been beyond my reach. You made the right choice.”

She didn’t respond. What was there to say?

“Give us a moment, please,” Emperor Nealon ordered. The doctor and the guards filed out of the room. “...Brighid, I want you to take Mòrag to Gormott.”

“After all she’s been through, you want to send her away?”

“Don’t misunderstand. I want to give her a chance to heal. Mor Ardain cannot afford her that opportunity. Gormott could.”

“How so?”

“The estate on Gormott is remote, tucked away along the shores of Lake Yewtle. You have yet to meet her, but my wife, Annabelle, moved to the continent on account of her health several years ago. She tells me that it is a private place with very few visitors. Mòrag would be safe there, hidden from the public eye. No one but myself, you, my wife, and a very select few servants would even know about her pregnancy. We could protect her reputation.”

“And what about the child?”

Nealon frowned. “Gormott has done wonders for Annabelle’s health. For all the public knows, she is well enough that she could ‘miraculously’ conceive.”

“You mean…”

“I will lie to the world. I can make an announcement that a royal baby is on the way and let the public believe that Annabelle is pregnant. And if Mòrag and Annabelle were both staying in Gormott, tucked away in the privacy of the Imperial estate, then no one would know the child’s true identity—merely that we welcomed a royal heir.”

“You’d be asking her to live every day with a visual reminder of her own rape. She’d have to call it her sibling. That’s hardly a solution.”

“I understand that, Brighid. But Mòrag’s position makes this a very complicated issue. An illegitimate child, if not accounted for at all times, is a liability to the throne. If the child were handed off to some peasant family, who’s to say that in another decade its identity wouldn’t become public? The circumstances would be beyond our control. Then we would encounter the same issues we’re facing now. Mòrag would still be dragged through the mire of public scandal—even more so for lying about it. But with this arrangement, the child’s illegitimacy vanishes. He or she becomes a legitimate member of the Ardanach royal family, and we have full control over any incriminating information.”

“Legitimacy, liability, incriminating information—do you even hear how cold you sound? It’s a baby. And Mòrag’s hardly more than a child herself. Don’t talk about them like they’re articles in a policy bill!”

“…In the scenario I’ve proposed, if the truth were to be found out, the blame would fall to me. It is the only thing I can think to do to guarantee she’d be protected from a scandal.”

Brighid considered his statement. If the Emperor himself lied to the entire world and the truth was found out, he would be crucified in the court of public opinion—possibly even forced to abdicate his throne. The indignance towards him would be so great that there would hardly be any left to spare for Mòrag. This was Emperor Nealon’s gambit. 

“What if Mòrag refuses?”

“…It is not my right to command Mòrag regarding the child’s fate. The choice is hers. If she elects to give the child up and try to forget that this ever happened, then I will not stop her, nor would I blame her. But I fear with that choice the truth may come back to haunt us.”

“The truth will always haunt us, Your Majesty. No matter what we choose...But on one thing, we are in agreement: Gormott may help her heal.”

“I will make the arrangements as soon as the physician says she is well enough to travel. Please see to it that I’m informed when she wakes.” The Emperor rose to leave.

“You ought to stay with her.”

“The crown is what drove her to this act of desperation. It should not be the first thing she sees when she awakes.”

“But what about the face of her uncle? Her family?”

The Emperor shook his head. “I will go and contact Lady Annabelle and inform her that Mòrag will be coming.”

 _Damn Ardainian pride, trampling over its own children by holding them at arm’s length,_ Brighid thought as the man departed. Her own bitterness startled her. The passages in her own journals showed a Brighid that loved the Empire deeply, so fiercely that she rarely ever questioned it. Why, with her previous Driver, she’d helped lead the Gormott conquest, burning villages—even people—in the name of Mor Ardain. But today, that love for country ran shallower than it ever had. No longer was she Mor Ardain’s Jewel, Mor Ardain’s tool. She was Mòrag’s Blade. And that singular loyalty was all that mattered. 

It was a long night of waiting and praying, but during the wee hours of the morning, Mòrag regained consciousness. For a while, neither Driver nor Blade said anything. Brighid simply slipped her hand into Mòrag’s, wishing she could somehow erase the burn marks she caused. 

“You saved me, didn’t you?” Mòrag said at last.

Brighid nodded.

“I-I thought I wanted to die at first. But...when I started to pass out, I realized that I was also scared to die. So I prayed that you’d find me.”

“Why do this, Mòrag?”

“...If I died, this whole problem would go away. Uncle Nealon could go back to ruling. The Empire would be better off without me.”

“But what about _me?_ Mòrag, I’m not better off without you.”

Guilt glimmered in Mòrag’s eyes. “I didn’t think about that...I’m sorry, Brighid. I did not think how my actions would affect you, my Blade.”

“I’m not just your Blade, Mòrag. I’m your friend, your partner, your family. And I need you. So please, _please_ don’t leave me behind.”

“I’m just so scared, Brighid. Scared of living, and scared of dying.”

“You’re allowed to be scared. But...Can I speak freely for a moment?”

“You of all people have earned that right.”

“The day we resonated, do you know what my first thought was? I thought, ‘This little girl is going to change the world.’ And in spite of everything that’s happened since then, I still think that’s true. Call it destiny, or fate, if you will. But I can feel it in every particle of ether, in my very core. There has to be more to your story, Mòrag. I refuse to believe otherwise.”

“If there’s more to my story, it’s too dark for me to read.”

“Then let me be your candle. We’ll find our way through this together.”

Days later, when the best opportunity came amidst a host of doctor’s exams, Brighid explained the Emperor’s plan—the move to Gormott, his proposed approach to hiding the pregnancy and the baby’s identity, all of it. Her core ached to throw such a challenging decision on her Driver. And yet, when so much had already been forced on her, it would have been wrong to steal this choice from her, too. 

“I _have_ always wanted to visit Gormott,” Mòrag sighed, considering the proposition. “Father intended to take me...Is it nice there?”

“According to my journal, it’s beautiful. There are lush green forests and pristine lakes as far as the eye can see. And they don’t have factories there to fog up the atmosphere, so the sky is always a brilliant blue.”

“If I stayed there, do you really think it will keep people from finding out?”

“There’s no guarantee,” Brighid explained, “but the chances of it being discovered would be much smaller in Gormott. And I think a change of scenery would be good for you.”

“Maybe new quarters in a new place will help the nightmares go away. You’d be coming with me?”

“My only place is at your side.”

“...Then we’re Gormott bound.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, long note incoming, but there are some things that need to be said here. First off, the concept of Mòrag actually being Niall’s birth mother came to me first, intended as a long one-shot. I almost didn’t write it, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I was simultaneously dreaming up this Mòrag/Zeke arranged marriage plotline...and well, the pieces just fit together. 
> 
> Now for the harder parts. Several chapters back, I first alluded to Mòrag’s backstory. But when this fic started gaining ground, I debated about scrapping this section. I really did. I could have switched out the cause of her self-harming behaviors without much difficulty. That would have been much easier to write. Unfortunately, though, the problem of childhood abuse is not something that can be neatly swept under a rug and ignored. Every day, kids and teens and even adults are profoundly hurt by people they trust: coaches, teachers, celebrities, even relatives. My heart breaks at the thought. And recently, particularly in my area, we’ve seen growing reports of these things happening. 
> 
> I can’t look away from this issue. I won’t ignore it. That’s why I chose to leave it in Mòrag’s story. Unfortunately, a story alone isn’t enough to solve the problem. But if writing this chapter helps me be more aware of and empathetic towards those around me—if it helps me support and protect survivors—then my story helps in the tiniest way. If it helps you do the same, even better. 
> 
> More importantly, I want this story—for all its fun and fluff—to tell a tale of hope. Here at the darkest point, it may be hard to see that. But rainbows come after storms. People who’ve been broken—whether through abuse, loss of a loved one, broken relationships, depression, or even just the hard knocks of life—can still see brighter days. If you or a loved one has experienced this, know that you are seen, believed, and supported (and if you haven’t, be watchful, loving, and supportive). Our darkest moments do not define us. Things can get better. And I promise, there are much happier times ahead for Mòrag, too. 
> 
> There’s going to be at least one more chapter of flashback/Mòrag’s past. There are some bittersweet sections to it, but it’s considerably brighter in its tone. After the dark headspace I’ve been in writing this chapter, I for one am looking forward to writing Chapter 13, “The Girl at Gormott.”
> 
> If you’ve read this far, thank you. I hope you’ll stick around for the rainbow.
> 
> —Jeli


	13. The Girl at Gormott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory part 2 incoming. There are a couple rougher bits, but for the most part, this chapter isn't nearly as raw as 12.

The arrival of an Imperial flagship at Gormott’s docks caused quite a stir in Torigoth and the surrounding hamlets—especially when the townsfolk realized that the figure disembarking was not the Emperor and his stoic water Blade. This young woman was someone they had never seen before. However, nearly everyone recognized the fire Blade behind her. To the older Gormotti, she was the Azure Raze (and a host of other foreboding nicknames) who’d burned hundreds, maybe thousands of Gormotti during the Imperial conquest of the continent. Her figure was equally familiar to the younger Gormotti, too, although the younglings recognized her from the pictures they saw on pro-Imperial and anti-Imperial propaganda alike. Gormotti sentiment towards Mor Ardain was mixed, as was the feeling of awe and fear caused by Brighid’s arrival. 

As a result of that apprehension, no one approached the docks to get a closer look at the new arrivals. While the common folk later learned that the second newcomer was in fact the princess of Mor Ardain, they never saw that she did not look like much of a princess: somber eyes, almost masculine clothes that seemed to be a size too large, and an imposing whipsword on each hip. It was a long time before most Gormotti ever saw the princess again, so that aura of mystery circulated throughout the entire continent. 

Only Lady Annabelle and her handmaid came to the docks to receive them. Brighid had not met the woman before, but she was immediately struck by how different Annabelle was from the Emperor. While her husband displayed a stoic, professional-at-all-times nature, Annabelle expressed her emotions freely—her bright blue eyes gleamed, reflecting the warm personality beneath. 

“Welcome to Gormott, Mòrag,” Annabelle said sweetly, pulling her niece into a hug. “I’m very glad to have you join me here, though I wish it were for happier circumstances.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” Mòrag replied.

“Oh, none of that. For you, it’s just Annabelle or Annie or Auntie. That’s what you called me when you were little. And since we’re not at the palace, we don’t need to be quite so formal. Even the servants just call me Lady Annie.”

“Well then, Aunt Annabelle,” Mòrag began stiffly, struck by the woman’s relaxed approach, “allow me to introduce you to Brighid, my Blade.”

Annabelle gave a slight curtsy, to which Brighid offered the customary bow. “Welcome, Brighid. Although I hardly require an introduction; I met you when you were still in resonance with Nealon’s father. My husband speaks very highly of you. Thank you for all you’ve done for Mòrag.”

“I’m honored.”

“Well, let’s not hang around out here. Let’s head back to the estate so you ladies can get settled before supper.”

During the ride to the Imperial estate, it became undeniably clear that Annabelle was much more talkative than her husband. She prattled on the entire ride: how much the clear air of Gormott had revitalized her, how the estate staff was reduced to a small team of just six women—her handmaiden, her doctor, a cook, and three other servants—the breathtaking view of Lake Yewtle from the upper and lower decks of the manor, and of course, how much better the cuisine was than in Mor Ardain. Not that Brighid or Mòrag were really listening intently; the Blade kept a watchful eye on her Driver as she gazed out the window, marvelling at the world they passed. Never before had Mòrag seen such intense blues, such vibrant greens. Mor Ardain’s scenery could not rival the colors, the flowers, the foliage, the immaculate fertile landscape Gormott offered. No wonder Mor Ardain fought so hard to claim the continent—and for the same reason, no wonder so many Gormotti considered taking it back by rebelling against the Ardainian occupation.

That beautiful landscape called to Mòrag in the days and weeks that followed, offering her a solace that no words could create. For the first time in her life, nothing was expected of her; she could study as she pleased, train as she wished (as regulated by Brighid, who feared putting too much strain on her Driver), and pass the day in the way that met her fancy. The only regulation was that she stay on the estate grounds. As a result, when she exhausted the training time Brighid allotted to her, Mòrag frequently meandered down to the lakeside.

“Let me go by myself, Brighid. I’d like some time alone,” Mòrag said one afternoon.

“I’m not comfortable letting you out of my sight just yet.” Secretly, Brighid still feared that if she left Mòrag unattended, she might not find her Driver again. 

“Then sit on the upper porch and watch me from a distance. This...this is the last place Father promised to take me. It’s silly, but I want to pretend I’m here with him. Just once.”

“Very well. But only if you promise to stay in sight.”

With her Blade thus placated, Mòrag ambled down to the lakeshore, found the spot with the best view, and sat down against a deer wood tree. Here, it was clear why her father promised to bring her. No factory noise filled the air—just the subtle ripple of the water on the shore, the chirrups of insects, the croaks of brogs from their homes. And was that...birdsong? The birds in Mor Ardain were deadly, never singing. But here, if she sat still enough, one would hop along the ground beside her in search of bugs or worms. 

It was, in a word, peaceful.

“Father, I miss you,” Mòrag whispered. “I wish we could travel together again and have one last adventure.”

A soft breeze slipped past, as if somehow, he was listening.

“I have so many things I wish I could ask you. I-I don’t understand why any of this happened. But it has. And now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. You always taught me to do the right thing no matter the cost. But I don’t know what the right thing is anymore. Is there even a right thing left for me to do?”

Old memories began to surface as she wondered what he’d say if he were sitting right beside her. 

_ “A good leader protects and defends those who are less fortunate than she, Mòrag. Whether you are Empress or just a princess, always remember that. If you can shield someone else from harm, do so.” _

“I just want to make you proud.”

_ “You already have, my darling. And as long as you are brave and kind, you always will.” _

“I don’t feel very brave.”

_ “Bravery isn’t an emotion. It is a choice, dear. And I believe you know which choice is the right one.” _

“What if I regret that choice, though? What if—”

“Who are you talking to?”

An unfamiliar voice snapped Mòrag from her daydreamed conversation. The last vestiges of her father’s voice and the memory of his fond expression faded from view, replaced by a very different figure: a young Gormotti girl clothed in a bright goldenrod sundress. Her amber eyes gleamed, framed by silver hair and cat-like ears that twitched when she laughed. She couldn’t have been older than ten, and yet she’d found her way onto Imperial grounds. How had she snuck in?

“N-nobody,” Mòrag stammered, startled by the company she now found herself in. How much had the girl heard? “Just thinking aloud.”

“I’ve never met someone out here before,” the girl commented. “Who are you?”

Mòrag hesitated, unsure how to answer. For the past weeks she’d been so careful about avoiding the citizens and staying hidden that she never considered how to react if she encountered someone.

“Are you a friend of the Ardainian princess or something? They say she’s living at the royal estate, but no one’s actually seen her.”

“Something like that,” Mòrag lied. At least here, in Gormott, her persona had an aura of mystery for the residents. Why not hide behind it?

The girl looked around and gasped, pointing. Mòrag looked at the subject of her gesture to see Brighid standing at the edge of the manor’s porch, poised to act if this stranger proved malicious. 

“Is that the Jewel? Lady Brighid?” the girl asked, wonder in her voice.

Mòrag nodded. “She’s the princess’s Blade.”

“Is she as scary as they say?”

“Only when she’s angry. Otherwise she’s quite nice.”

“Wow. She’s even prettier than the posters made her out to be. I’m told the princess is really pretty, too...Say, do you mind if I sit here for a bit? I don’t want to make trouble. I know I’m not technically supposed to be here, but this is the best view of the lake.”

“Go ahead,” Mòrag said at last. What harm could one little oblivious girl do? Granted, she’d somehow snuck her way onto Imperial grounds, but that spunk couldn’t surpass Brighid’s watchful eye above. And a sense of curiosity filled her, too. She never talked to a Gormotti before.

The girl sat down a few feet away. “I’m Elsie, by the way. Elsie von Echell.”

“Echell. Isn’t that one of the Gormotti lords?”

She winked. “Yup. You’re well informed. How’d you know that? Most Ardainians don’t give a damn about our politics unless it concerns how to keep us in line.” She caught herself, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I don’t suppose I should say that to a friend of the princess.”

“It’s fine. I understand the occupation is unpopular with some of the Gormotti. The topic comes up frequently at the manor.”

“So what’s your name?” Elsie asked, changing the subject.

“...Morgan.”

“Well, Morgan, nice to meet you. And welcome to Gormott. So give me the scoop on the princess. Is she as good a Driver as they say? Is she nice? Why does she just stay inside the estate?”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

Elsie blushed. “Yeah. Sorry if I’m a bother. It’s just interesting. I’ve only ever met Ardainian military.”

“The princess is quite busy with her duties at home,” Mòrag lied again. “And she usually keeps to herself. Between studying and training with her Blade, she doesn’t get out much.”

“I guess that makes sense. My Blade’s always pestering me to pay more attention to my studies, too.”

“You’re a Driver? But you’re so young,” Mòrag pointed out.

The girl nodded. “My Da was terrified when I tried to resonate with my Blade. He thought I’d be physically too weak to do it. But I proved him wrong. You see, since Mor Ardain is in charge now, there’s a precedent that everyone in leadership needs to be a Driver. Some guff about the potential to be a Driver means you’ll make a good leader or somethin’. Since Da’s a lord, he’s got a Blade, a great cuddly white tiger with healing powers. And since I’m Da’s only heir, I needed to be a Driver, too. So I resonated with mine.”

“What’s your Blade like?”

“She’s the best Blade ever. Although, I suppose, as an Ardainian, you probably think Lady Brighid is the best,” Elsie said excitedly. “She’s like a sister to me. I mean, she can be a right pain in the arse—excuse my language. Da’s always yellin’ at me to speak more like a proper lady. Anyway, she’s always nagging me to take better care of my health. Tells me to stay in bed and preserve my strength. I owe her my life, though. She’s one of the most powerful healing Blades ever. If not for her, I’d probably have died already.”

“You’re ill.” Mòrag didn’t phrase it as a question. 

“Yeah. Something about my ether flow doesn’t work right, I guess. Makes me physically very weak. On good days, it’s all I can manage to come for a walk out here. The doctors don’t think there’s a cure, but my Da keeps spending all his money on treatments, hoping I’ll get better. My Blade does what she can to keep my ether going, but after a while, it’ll get beyond what she can heal.” 

“How long do you have?”

“I dunno. A few years, at most.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to rest at home, then? You might put less strain on your ether flow that way,” Mòrag suggested.

“That’s what my family says. But I can cope with the idea of dying. We all die. It’s the thought of dying all cooped in bed that I just can’t stand. I mean, just look at everything around us. It’s beautiful. There are so many pretty things to see in the world. I want to see them while I still can.”

“There are plenty of ugly things. Cruel people, too.”

“Yes. But I think ugly things are there to make us realize just how pretty the beautiful parts are. And...if I can, I want to inspire people, too.”

“How so?”

“It’d be so easy for me to give up, to just shut myself at home and wait to die. I think that’s what people expect me to do. But that’s a pretty meaningless existence. And I don’t want to be remembered as nothing more than a victim of some dumb disease. So I do what I can to make other people smile. Sure, it’s nothing heroic. But what if, somewhere out there, there’s someone who’s lost hope? What if I can make that person smile? Make them feel hopeful again? If...if I could do that for even just one person, then I think it’d all be worth it,” Elsie explained quietly.

The town clocktower echoed in the distance. Three tolls, then quiet again.

“Damn, I gotta get home!” 

Elsie eased herself to her feet. Only then did Mòrag realize how strained and slow her movements were. And her Driver instincts told her that something was very, very wrong with Elsie’s ether flow. It felt jumbled, like a knotted mass of yarn. She didn’t know how she could tell, but somehow Mòrag knew that another year was a very optimistic estimate. 

“Will I see you again sometime?” Mòrag asked. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much she missed talking to someone outside the manor staff. And this girl’s smile, her hope in the face of a looming early death, the ability to find the beauty in the midst of a very painful existence—it was infectious. 

“Maybe. I come out here whenever I’m having a good day. Usually at this time. Bye, then!”

From that point on, Mòrag made it a habit to go down to the lakeside at that time of day. More often than not, she spent the afternoon alone reading. But whenever Elsie was feeling well enough, she would join her at the lakeside, always oblivious to the real identity of her new companion. They exchanged stories, shared picnics, told each other about holiday traditions in their respective countries, picked flowers, watched the local wildlife—nothing that would shatter Alrest. Just a simple search for the simplest, neglected pleasures of the world. At first, Mòrag thought the girl naive in her relentless pursuit to find the positive side of everything. But she quickly learned that Elsie was anything but ignorant. Her troubles had been different, but she, too, had seen the darker sides of life. Elsie lived every day with the darkest reality of all: death, and arguably a meaningless life preceding it. But this petite Gormotti  _ chose  _ to find the positive and the beautiful in spite of that. 

It was a positivity Mòrag envied. So even though her pregnancy became more and more visible, she still ambled down to meet her friend, hoping Elsie’s outlook was contagious. 

Brighid and the others living at the estate knew of the little Gormotti girl sneaking onto the premises, but no one ever put a stop to it. Because every time the princess spent the afternoon with the lord’s daughter, she returned a little brighter, a little more hopeful than she had been when she left. Not that all of Mòrag’s sadness and fear immediately vanished; she still had days when the somber, scared expression lined her eyes constantly. But the defeated, hopeless edge of her gaze gradually disappeared. And everyone knew it was thanks to her conversations with the young stranger.

“This might seem rude, but I’ve got to ask,” Elsie began one afternoon. “A-are you going to have a baby?”

Mòrag stiffened and fixed her gaze on a bee buzzing around a nearby blossom. She couldn’t lie her way out of this one. Not to this girl, who’d been so kind and honest, the only non-Blade friend she had on the entire continent.

“Yes,” she answered at last.

“Are you married? I know Ardainians tend to marry young, but you—”

“I’m not. But it isn’t like that. I, well, a bad man took advantage of me. Got me pregnant.”

It was Elsie’s turn to look away awkwardly. “Oh. Is that why you’re here in Gormott, then?”

_ She’s remarkably astute for someone so young. No wonder she’s a Driver,  _ Mòrag thought.

“If anyone in the capitol found out that I was going to have a baby, it’d cause a lot of trouble for my family. My father is...a very close friend of the Emperor, so His Majesty offered to let me stay here until the baby is born.”

“They’re making you hide, even though it wasn’t your fault?”

Mòrag nodded. “Quite frankly, I chose to come here. And looking back, I’m glad I did.”

For a moment, Mòrag considered telling the girl the truth. At the very least, she ought to thank her for her companionship, for making those lonely days at the manor just a little brighter. But she held her tongue, scared what might happen if Elsie learned that she’d lied about her identity from the beginning. And what if Elsie told her father that the mysterious Ardainian princess was pregnant? Uncle Nealon had been so careful to shelter her from a scandal. She couldn’t let a childish whimsy threaten that. Not now, when the Empire was ecstatic about the recent announcement of Annabelle’s so-called pregnancy. 

It ended up being one of the last times she spoke with her new friend. Their visits grew further apart. At first, Mòrag figured Elsie’s health had worsened—she had been looking weaker as of late—but then the visits stopped altogether. When she sent Brighid into town to investigate, fearing that the girl had died without the chance to say goodbye, all they learned was another mystery. Lord Echell, his daughter, and their two Blades had sold every possession they owned and fled. There was plenty of gossip as to why: that the father had dabbled in nefarious occult practices, that he’d been fraternizing with unsavory Imperial and Indoline troops, that his daughter needed a change of scenery to heal, or that his creditors had come calling and he skipped town to evade his debts. Regardless of the true cause, they vanished without a trace. It was more than a decade before Mòrag pieced together the puzzle about her friend’s disappearance. 

But even though Elsie’s time in Mòrag’s life was short, her influence never left. The Gormotti girl’s wish to give just one person hope again came true. 

Summer turned into fall, and fall eased into the first chills of winter. A nervous anticipation blanketed the Imperial estate like the first snowfall as the child’s arrival approached. With Mòrag’s better outlook had come a marked improvement in her health, but that did not eliminate fears completely. Amelia, Annabelle’s personal physician (and by extension, Mòrag’s) disliked how little weight she put on in spite of a carefully structured nutrient-dense diet. Brighid noticed a marked decrease in Mòrag’s sleep quality, and Mòrag herself feared the rigors of giving birth. 

And to make matters worse, that day came significantly early.

Brighid had become a light sleeper ever since Mòrag first confided in her—a fact that did not change throughout the duration of the pregnancy. So she woke as soon as she heard her Driver enter the room. 

“Another nightmare?” Brighid asked, scooting over in her bed as she did every time Mòrag needed comforting.

The girl shook her head and remained standing. “I think the baby’s coming.”

“Are you sure? Amelia said you have about six to eight weeks to go yet.”

She grimaced. “The contractions say otherwise.”

Brighid rose and donned a dressing robe. “You go back to your room, then. I’ll get Amelia and your aunt.”

“Please hurry. I don’t want to be alone for this.”

With the estate mostly empty, the errands did not take long: summoning Amelia, waking the queen herself, and last but not least, sending a servant to notify the Emperor in Mor Ardain. It would cause questions back home if he didn’t “rush to his wife’s side” as quickly as possible to greet the child. 

After reaching Mòrag's room, Amelia took one look and whistled. “Yup, we’re in labor, all right. Buckle up, ladies. It’s going to be a long night.”

“Are you ready, Mòrag?” Annabelle asked. The woman was doing a poor job hiding her own anxiety and excitement. While she did her best to empathize with her niece’s predicament, it was no secret that Annabelle always wanted a child.

“Brighid.”

The Blade looked to her Driver. The outstretched palm said it all for her:  _ stay with me.  _ Brighid slipped her hand into Mòrag’s shaky, sweaty one and gave a reassuring squeeze. The gold cord of their affinity bond opened, too, echoing with shared feelings. Even if she couldn’t share Mòrag’s physical pain, she could share the complicated tangle of emotions this day entailed. 

“You’ve been so brave, Mòrag. Just a little longer.”

Brighid worried that her own emotions would be too overwhelming for her Driver, but she couldn’t bring herself to rescind the affinity bond, either. Not when Mòrag needed her to simply be present. And ultimately Brighid’s feelings mattered little; Mòrag was too distracted to process them. 

An odd mix of prayers and curses ran through Brighid’s head during the entire ordeal. This was too early; would the child even survive? Brighid feared that Mòrag might relapse if that happened. It would be just like her to blame herself for the child’s death. The girl clamped down on her Blade’s hand tighter than seemed possible for such a small creature. No, not a girl anymore. Like it or not, today marked the end of Mòrag’s childhood. Not for the last time did Brighid curse the man responsible for that prematurely stolen innocence, vowing to burn him alive if she ever got a hold of him. 

_ Architect, please let it be a girl. Don’t let the throne be stolen from her, too.  _

Perhaps it was a side effect of being the Emperor’s Blade in so many previous lifetimes, but Brighid had never managed to reconcile herself to the possibility that Mòrag might be anything but Empress. After all she sacrificed, she deserved to rule, not be cast aside in favor of her own infant. She and Mòrag had discussed the matter frequently, and outwardly, Mòrag seemed at peace with the thought. But Brighid’s core told her that Mòrag was still destined for something great, something incredible. What could be better than leading the proudest nation in the world? 

Amelia had called this an at-risk pregnancy on account of Mòrag’s age, too. Complications now could claim both the child and the mother. But Brighid pushed that thought away, trying to focus on the vibrancy of her Driver’s ether signature instead. With each contraction, the baby’s ether signature disentangled itself from Mòrag’s, growing louder and more distinct. 

And in a matter of hours, the little bell of the child’s ether signature transformed into a full-blown cry.

“Healthy lungs on this one,” Amelia commented as she accounted for the newborn’s vitals. “That’s a good sign.”

Brighid gave her Driver a small smile and pushed back an unkempt lock of hair, wiping away some of the sweat beads on her forehead. Such a brave little thing. 

_ “It’s a boy.”  _

Brighid almost cut off the ether connection between them. Mòrag didn’t need to feel her own indignance at the gravity of those three words. And the look on Mòrag’s face when she heard the gender—was it relief? Acceptance? Disappointment? Not even Brighid could tell. 

“Do you want to hold him, Mòrag?” Annabelle asked, hesitating to accept the squirming bundle Amelia held out to her. 

An internalized debate shone in Mòrag’s eyes. So many emotions lingered in that single glance: fear, curiosity, relief, and even some distaste as she hesitated, all at once considering the possibility of giving the child away after all. But as the infant’s cries continued, that distaste faded, replaced by an expression Brighid never managed to find the right words for when she wrote it down.

Mòrag released her Blade’s hand at last and nodded.

Brighid wondered if the initial resonance between a Driver and a Blade was a little like that moment—an overwhelming rush of incomprehensible emotions, of the thrill and curiosity of a first meeting between two souls that would always be together, then nothing but peace. In the first second in Mòrag’s arms, the tiny infant fell silent, nuzzled against her chest. And with that touch, months of pain and fear melted from Mòrag’s face. A tired, awed smile replaced it. 

“Hello there, little prince,” she whispered. “I know it’s scary out here. But I’ll make sure nothing bad ever happens to you.”

_ Oh, Mòrag. You’re a better woman than I,  _ Brighid thought. 

That thought crossed through Brighid’s mind over and over again in the weeks that followed. How her Driver managed it, she never fathomed: nursing a child she never asked for, and for the good of her country and that child, allowing someone else to raise him. Maybe it was the relentless sense of duty her father instilled in her. Or perhaps it was something deeper: the kindness of a young woman who’d seen the worst hate the world could give and vowed to shelter others from it. 

One day, Brighid got her answer—an answer that solidified her loyalty to her Driver. 

“I-I wanted to hate him,” Mòrag admitted. “When he was born, I thought he’d only remind me of all the bad things that happened. But when I held him for the first time, it was like the world fell away. He’s so innocent, so helpless. I tried to hate him, but I think I fell in love with him instead. Is that wrong?”

“Of course not, Lady Mòrag. You are selfless. It is not in your nature to turn away any child in need.”

“...I guess I’m not meant to be Empress after all. And Niall will never know who I really am.”

“Can you live with that?”

She gave a single nod. “It’s for the best. I think...I think I know what my purpose is now. It’s not to lead. It’s to protect. To protect Niall. And to protect others. No one should have to go through what I endured. So I’ll do what I can to stop it.”

“What are you saying?”

“In two years, I’ll turn sixteen. Then I can join the military and help track down criminals and help protect the land my baby brother’s meant to rule.”

“They won’t necessarily give you the assignments you want, Mòrag. Not even as the princess. What if they don’t post you in Gormott?”

“I think Uncle Nealon—I mean, Father will make that small concession on my account. But if not, I’ll just have to work my way to the top and make the assignments myself.”

It amazed Brighid how quickly Mòrag had adapted to the nuances of the cover-up, calling Annabelle “Mother” and her uncle “Father” simply to shelter Niall from the truth of his birth. But it was more the girl’s resolve that caused her to smile proudly.

“What’s that expression for?” Mòrag asked.

“It’s been over a year since I saw that fire in your eyes,” Brighid confessed. “I’m glad. I’ve missed it.”

“Can I count on your support in those endeavors?”

“Always.”

In the days and years that followed, there was a lot of back-and-forth between Mor Ardain and Gormott. First came a trip to the motherland for Mòrag’s coming-of-age celebration on her sixteenth birthday and Niall’s introduction to Ardainian society (as silly as it seemed to publicly present a two-year-old to a nation). Mercifully, the Ardanach-Ladair blood ran stronger in the young prince than Pachnall’s; he bore the lineage’s dark hair, strong jawline, and slight frame. Only his blue eyes threatened to reveal his patronage. But since Annabelle’s eyes had a similar shade, no one ever questioned it. And thus the lie held. Mòrag reconciled herself with the substance of the lie, accepting her position as Niall’s sister with surprisingly little difficulty. But the act of lying caused a lingering sensation of guilt that only Brighid knew about. And it would probably never go away completely, haunting her whenever the truth threatened to surface. 

Shortly after her sixteenth birthday came Mòrag’s enlistment in Mor Ardain’s military and its accompanying bootcamps and grueling training sessions. There, her royalty earned her nothing; it was her talent and her unbreakable resolve that won her recognition. Whereas the other recruits broke under the indomitable strain of the drill sergeants, Mòrag’s past had already broken and rebuilt her. She thrived under the pressure and became a favorite of her superior officers—and quickly won the contempt of many of the noblemen’s sons she surpassed.

However, she quickly became known for something else entirely.

The female recruits were small in number at the camp; Mòrag was one of seven in the class of several hundred (excluding the female Blades some soldiers had). That discrepancy frequently caused unwanted male attention—although most steered clear of Mòrag, mainly for fear of Brighid. The recruits’ poor behavior went mostly ignored, but when the princess caught a male recruit cornering a girl in the rec area outside, she decided enough was enough. 

“Carthaigh,” Mòrag barked, her voice louder than ought to have been possible for such a small young woman. “Elodie asked you to leave her alone. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as she asks.”

The soldier turned around, scoffing when he caught sight of the one who’d called him out. “Silverspoon Ladair. Was that supposed to be a threat?”

“It was. For someone who’s too dense to understand the word ‘no,’ I’m impressed you figured that out.”

A collective gasp echoed from Carthaigh’s companions.

Rage boiled in the young man’s eyes. “Why, you little—I ought to show you your place, bitch. Acting all high and mighty. Where do you get off being so smug, eh? If it weren’t for your Blade, you’d be nothing.”

“My place? I ought to show you yours, Jed. And I could do so without Brighid’s help.”

Jedrek Carthaigh scoffed. “I’d love to see you try. My burying your face in the dirt here and now might take you down a peg.”

Mòrag pulled her whipswords from her sheaths and tossed them to Brighid, who understood the unvoiced command and took a place along the wall, watching with no intention of interfering. Mòrag clasped both hands behind her back, not even bothering to take a fighting stance. If Carthaigh wanted a fight, he would have to make the first move. And she knew he was too proud to back down after a threat to his spot in the regiment’s pecking order.

By now, they’d attracted the attention of every soldier in the vicinity. Even a commanding officer looked on, curious to see how the rumored strongest Driver in the Empire would fare in an unarmed fight. 

“Get ‘er, Jed!”

He drew his own lance and moved to hand it off to his own Blade for a fair fight.

“You might want to hang onto that,” Mòrag taunted. “You’re going to need it.”

“And let the entire camp think I squashed you just because you were unarmed? No thanks. I’m going to pummel you fair and square.”

“Suit yourself.”

Even in the earliest days of her combat training, Mòrag had learned how to irritate her opponents during a fight. In the military, it was a skill she mastered. Angry, sloppy foes, no matter how much bigger they were than she, were much easier to topple. And Jedrek Carthaigh fell right into that trap.

The moment he lunged at her, it was clear that he was outmatched. Mòrag read his movements easily, dodging as easy as breathing. And to irritate him further, her hands never left their clasped position behind her back. Brighid could tell Mòrag was toying with him; a much bigger game was at stake here. Behind this simple scuffle was Mòrag’s vow to protect others from enduring what she’d suffered. Jedrek’s behavior, while not criminal, threatened that vow. So Mòrag was going to make an example of him. 

His fists flailed wildly; a single strike might have broken a jaw or a rib, as could his kicks. But none of them ever found their mark. 

“Hold still, will you? Fight back!”

Only then did Mòrag oblige him. One of Carthaigh’s punches flung wide. In a single, fluid movement, Mòrag dodged. Before anyone quite saw what was happening, she countered with a kick of her own. There was a sickening crack as her boot met his side, breaking one or two of his ribs. He crumpled face down in the sand. Mòrag never granted him the opportunity to stand. Her boot clamped down on his head. If he tried to rise, she could crush his temple.

And to the delight of nearly everyone watching, Mòrag’s hands never left her back. 

“How does that dirt taste?” she asked her vanquished opponent, loud enough for the onlookers to hear. “Because it’s what you’re acting like, Jedrek. Get your act together, or else when I’m in charge—and mark my words, I will be—you’ll find yourself without a job.”

The camp burst into cheers, but Mòrag simply walked away, Brighid trailing behind her. The takedown became a part of training camp lore for the officers in charge, though, who made it a point to more carefully regulate the more non-professional behavior some recruits displayed.

After completing her initial training, Mòrag accepted a post in Gormott, allowing her to live at the manor with Niall and Annabelle, whose health had begun to decline again. Before long, however, she found herself living at the manor alone; the Gormott Rebellion of 4048 flared up six months later. Emperor Nealon called his wife and his son to temporary safe-haven back in the motherland. Meanwhile, Mòrag defended the home that had come to mean so much to her. Some went so far as to say that she single-handedly quelled the rebellion. It was an exaggeration, of course; it proved to be a weak resistance, and most Gormotti had a deep-seated fear of Brighid, not her Driver. But by the time the conflict ended and Niall and Annabelle returned to Gormott, Mòrag won a fast-track of promotions. And contrary to the critics, she earned each one on account of her skill, not her royalty.

But no matter how long her duties kept her away, Mòrag always found her way back to Gormott. Over the years she grew to prefer this arrangement as false siblings with Niall. It granted her the right to protect him and dote on him without the responsibility of disciplining him—and as often as her job allowed, she did just that. 

One afternoon, in the summer following Niall’s seventh birthday, Mòrag took a rare indulgence and slipped away from her post in Torigoth early. As Gormott’s military Inquisitor—the precursor to the position of Special Inquisitor and the highest position available to her in this Ardainian province—she could get away with it. But it was a liberty she took advantage of infrequently; she had mastered the ability to hold herself at arm’s length from her brother, never giving anyone cause to question whether she valued more highly her duty or the future Emperor.

Today, however, was different. No one saw her steal through the manor’s passages to Niall’s quarters, where the boy was dutifully studying for tomorrow’s lessons.

“Psst. Niall!” Her voice and wave drew him away from his desk and books. “Father’s ship is arriving this evening, so all the servants are distracted right now. And I finished work early.”

Niall’s eyes lit up, glimmering with the suggestion she hadn’t voiced. “Can we?” he squealed. 

She nodded. “Go get your swimsuit on. Hurry!”

Mòrag couldn’t help but smile as the boy dashed off and reappeared almost instantly with his new attire on. The opportunities to sneak him away were growing fewer and farther between. She had her duties as Gormott’s Inquisitor; Niall’s training as the crown prince grew more intense by the day. So each chance was special. 

“Carry me! Give me a piggyback to the lake!”

“You’re getting too big for that, silly.”

“I am not. You’re so strong you could carry Father on your back if you had to,” Niall said matter-of-factly. 

He extended his arms, demanding his ride. Charmed by his childish confidence, she relented and knelt on the hardwood floor long enough for him to throw his arms around her shoulders so she could hoist him up. Gleeful laughter escaped his lips when she broke into a run, weaving in and out of the manor’s corridors. The giggles increased when the stairs jostled him on her back. 

Only when they reached Lake Yewtle’s shore did he squirm and break free. In a second he was knee-deep in the water chasing after a single-clawed Krustip. Mòrag shed her uniform first, grateful that she’d endured the discomfort of wearing her suit underneath her clothes all day. It was worth it when she plunged in after him. 

No one at the manor heard them slip away—with the exception of Brighid, who could see the lakeshore from her chair on the upstairs porch. And the Blade had no intention of stopping them. For hours, they played: swimming races, skipping rocks, games of chase with Gormotti children from the nearby village, diving, splashing, collecting flowers and other treasures on the shore. 

A description of that scene found its way into her journal. She wanted to remember the sound of those laughs, those squeals when a splash was startlingly cold. One laugh still held its innocence; the other lacked that innocence but had finally learned how to laugh again. Both sounds warmed her core. For years afterwards, Brighid found herself flipping back to that journal entry; ultimately, it turned out to be the last time Mòrag snuck him away to go swimming. That evening, once the Emperor’s ship was unpacked and the royal family sat together for their meal, Emperor Nealon made a surprising announcement.

“Special Inquisitor Seamus Roibard was wounded in the line of duty. His injuries were severe enough that he elected to step down from his position.”

“That’s a shame,” Lady Annabelle commented. “You’ll be hard-pressed to find another man of his caliber to replace him.”

“Actually, I have no intention of replacing him with another man of his caliber.”

“Whatever do you mean, Father?” Mòrag asked.

“I intend to replace him with a woman. You, Mòrag. It is my wish that you serve as Mor Ardain’s next Special Inquisitor.”

Mòrag’s guarded expression flinched momentarily as his words sunk in. “Father, I’m honored. But surely there are other candidates better suited to it than I. That position—it’s effectively the head of the military. I’m still quite young. I’ve only been in service for five years now. Aside from helping with the rebellion, I haven’t seen much active combat in my duties here. And I’m content to serve as the Inquisitor here in Gormott.”

“This matter is not up for discussion, Mòrag. I’ve made my choice. The Special Inquisitor is the right-hand to the Emperor. And I can think of no better person to fulfill that role than the Empire’s strongest Driver. Furthermore, youth and wisdom are not necessarily correlated. You possess the talent, skill, drive, and tenacity that post requires.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Mòrag’s response was the dutiful one, the scripted reply. But from her customary position behind Mòrag’s chair, Brighid could tell by the hairs standing up on the back of her neck that she wanted to beg for the right to stay on as Gormott’s Inquisitor. Yes, Mòrag had set her sights on the role of Special Inquisitor seven years ago. However, she’d never intended to take it so early, not while Niall was still in Gormott. 

“Mòrag’s going to be the Special Inquisitor and wear that special uniform?” Niall gasped loudly. “She’ll look so cool!”

“Niall, princes do not shout or speak out of turn,” Lady Annabelle chided gently.

The boy sank back into his seat before sitting back up, minding his posture. “Apologies. But wait...does this mean Mòrag will have to leave Gormott?”

The Emperor nodded. “Don’t look so sad, my boy. You will be joining us in Mor Ardain as well.”

“Father?” Mòrag bit her lip after the outburst, but Nealon gave her a knowing glance and addressed the entire table. 

“We’re all returning to Mor Ardain. It is a subject I’ve discussed at length with your mother and my counselors. There is continued unrest here in Gormott. We cannot afford another rebellion, not while Uraya’s trade embargoes are flaring international tensions. We will be increasing our military presence here, bringing in a consul to formally establish order. While that happens, I would feel much more at ease with you all safe and close at hand. And I believe the time has come for Niall to see firsthand what is to be his destiny. While I pray the Architect grants me a long life, I am not a young man. The sooner Niall begins his training in earnest, the better.”

Further discussion on the matter was pointless; their chatter diminished into small talk until they finished eating. But when they all rose from the table, the Emperor called Mòrag to his side. Only when Niall and Annabelle had disappeared down the hallway did he speak again.

“I understand why you are hesitant to take on this assignment as Special Inquisitor, Mòrag. It will demand the bulk of your time. Going forward, you will be required to take an even more detached approach to Niall. Please understand that I did not make this decision lightly. I would love to let you continue here, splashing about in a lake with him. And while you were still so young, it was only natural for you to stay in Gormott as well. But it’s time. People are beginning to question why the second-most important lady and the strongest Driver in the Empire is serving in a second-rate position in this backwater. They believe your talents are wasted here. 

“Furthermore, I have had no less than six counselors advise me to arrange a marriage for you. Given your past, I would like to avoid that, but I cannot flatly deny them, either. If you serve as the Special Inquisitor, however, I would have ample reason to forestall such an arrangement.”

Mòrag nodded, eyes downcast. “I respect your decision, Father. If you are confident in my skill, then I accept...And thank you for considering my feelings regarding a marriage. I will do that duty when it is required of me, but I don’t yet feel ready to. I think I’d much prefer the duties of Inquisitor to those of a wife.”

“You will do your people proud in the role, my dear,” the Emperor said, nodding in approval at her compliant response.

“May I make one request?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Niall doesn’t become a Driver until he is of age, or—Architect forbid you die before then—when he takes the throne. And when he does, I want to instruct him.”

“Very well.”

As Emperor Nealon predicted, Mòrag made her people proud in her new role as Special Inquisitor. In fact, the position turned her into something of a celebrity. All of her childhood training to be Empress served her well; the tactics, logistics, and management procedures her critics expected her to be ignorant of translated easily into the military office she now held. And she made good use of her new authority, cracking down on harassment and misdemeanors within the Ardainian ranks. Thanks to her reforms, the military saw a gradual influx of female recruits. 

Meanwhile, Niall grew and matured at a rapid pace. Whereas Mòrag had been a prodigy with the sword, Niall was a prodigy in the classroom and in the Emperor’s court. His cunning, curious mind latched onto and mastered complex topics. Despite his youth, he understood the good his country caused, from the robust trade centers in Torigoth to the physical safety of Alba Cavanich and the uncanny ability to take the fumes of a dying Titan and turn them into something useful. But he also witnessed the darker sides that national pride caused: the starving, underdeveloped hamlets outside Torigoth; the cramped refugee camps outside the Praetorium; the exploitation of core crystal trade and use; the contempt and distrust in the gaze of every Urayan he met. And it saddened him. 

Observers remarked that Niall’s drive rivalled Mòrag’s, although his drive was different. He vowed to use his reign to finally establish peace with Uraya and heal some of the wounds Ardainian conquest caused. He kept that goal secret, however, really only ever mentioning it to his sister. It was not a sentiment Emperor Nealon shared; the current ruler hoped his successor would continue his imperial legacy. So Prince Niall continued to study and strategize, biding his time until he could leverage the power of the throne himself. 

He ascended the throne far earlier than anyone would have liked, but for a time his personal power was limited. On account of his intelligence and wisdom beyond his years, no regent ruled in his stead. But in accordance with Ardainian statutes, he could only pass bills and laws with the majority consent of his council and his retainer. Usually he got it, although they resisted his push to prevent another Urayan-Ardainian conflict. Only when he was of age could he truly pursue peace instead.

Until an alternate possibility presented itself in the second year of his reign: whispers of an Aegis and the young salvager who’d sworn to help her reach Elysium. The rumors immediately piqued the young Emperor’s interest. Why fight over dwindling land and resources when there was a path to peace atop the World Tree? 

When he dispatched his Special Inquisitor to investigate in Torigoth, no one would have predicted the frenzied chain of events that followed: the recall of the consul from Gormott and the ensuing distrust of the natives, Bana’s commercial exploitation on his own continent, the calamity at Temperantia, the summit at Indol, the horrifying near-miss with death. 

But all those events only served to further convince him—Elysium was their only hope, and Mòrag needed to be one of the first to see it. 

_ Follow your heart, Mòrag Ladair.  _

Those words repeated over and over in Mòrag’s mind as she stood on the deck of the Indoline airship, watching Indol and Niall’s flagship fade away on the horizon. She twiddled Aegaeon’s dormant core crystal in her left hand, not sure if she could bring herself to resonate with him when its facets turned blue again. She’d stayed up all night thinking about the odd knot in her chest. It wasn’t dread over leaving him. Not sadness or guilt, either. 

Brighid sensed it, too.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” the Blade asked. “There’s no telling how long we’ll be gone. It could be a long time before you see him again. And after what happened yesterday—”

“Your concern is appreciated, Brighid. But it’s not necessary,” Mòrag replied. “Yesterday was terrifying, but it reminded me how much Niall has grown. He’s old enough to make selfless choices like that. As much as I don’t want him to sacrifice himself, I no longer have the right to tell him not to. He can handle himself now.”

Brighid nodded, a half-smile creeping into her expression. “I know exactly where he got that hero complex from. You  _ did  _ assign additional guards to him before we left though, didn’t you?”

“The best security team he’ll ever have, or I’m not the Flamebringer.”

“Hey, you guys!” Nia called from the door to the ship’s hold. “Pyra made meatball pot-au-feu again. You’d better get down here before Gramps eats it all!” 

The Gormotti disappeared as quickly as she appeared.

“I still think it’s uncanny how much Nia looks like that girl from Gormott,” Brighid pointed out.

“Agreed. In any case, something about her doesn’t feel right. But I haven’t found the right moment to ask.” Mòrag let out a long sigh before continuing. “Niall is right about one thing, you know. I have been tied down for a long time. When I was little, my father used to take me traveling everywhere with him. I loved that. And I don’t think I realized just how much I missed it until we started tagging along with this motley crew. It’s actually been fun.”

“They’re tolerable, I suppose,” Brighid admitted. “With the exception of that sexist little Nopon. I’m still debating roasting him like a marshmallow.”

Mòrag laughed. “Toasted Nopons or not, I’m actually grateful to be going on this adventure. I think it will do me good. I just have one condition: that my best friend stays with me every step of the journey. I’d be lost without her.”

Brighid returned her Driver’s fond smile. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving.”

“Here we go, then. To Elysium and beyond.”

* * *

“And there you have it: the Ardanach’s dirty secret,” Mòrag sighed. Now that the whole tale was told—and Zeke had kept silent the entire time—a lump formed in her throat. For a long time, he didn’t say anything, fiddling with the seam on his pillowcase.

_ He’s so disgusted by your hypocrisy that he doesn’t even know what to say. Told you this would happen. _

“That explains why you’re so attached to him,” Zeke said at last. “Not that siblings can’t be close, but...wait, does Niall even know?”

“There’s no way he could. There are no records of his adoption. And we always told him that Annabelle and Nealon were his parents. They raised him, and I always acted as his sister. The only motherly thing I did for him was nurse him, which he of course has no memory of.”

“I would have never guessed it if you hadn’t told me. You play a very convincing protective older sister.”

“If you tell a lie long enough, you start to believe it yourself. Sometimes even I forget the truth,” Mòrag said. “...I-if you want to back out of this, I wouldn’t blame you. We could have the marriage annulled. I can find someone else to give Mor Ardain an heir.”

“Why the hell would I want an annulment?”

“Because I  _ lied _ to you. The entire premise of this marriage was a fraud, to give my country an heir. But I already have a son; the Ardainian royal family is just a mess of lies and hypocrisy. Tantal can’t afford to be tied to that. And you deserve better.”

Zeke shook his head. “My entire royal line is a great big lie. My house was just a bunch of usurpers, but when you found out, you didn’t reject me. So why would I do the same to you?”

“That’s different. You had no control over those circumstances,” Mòrag replied.

“I don’t think it’s all that different. And honestly, as far as I’m concerned, my knowing your past doesn’t change anything,” Zeke continued. “Yeah, I didn’t know your whole history. But I’m not going to jump ship on this marriage because of it.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Of course not. Only one thing has changed now that I know the truth: how much I respect you, Mòrag. You’ve always been the strongest woman I’ve ever met. Sure, you can be a bit of a hardass sometimes when it comes to traditions and romantic patriotism. But you’re kind. You’re loyal. And you’re incredibly brave. Now I know why. You faced hell and you spat in its face, survived, and made your own life. I admire you for that...more than I can say. So yeah. This changes nothing. I'm here. You’re stuck with the Zekenator.”

_ Respects you? Admires you? Please. This numbskull must be drunk. He’s spouting nonsense.  _ For the first time, the voice wavered—like it was frantically searching for a criticism that would stick in the face of his calm acceptance.

“This still isn’t fair to you. You deserve someone honest...who isn’t afraid to have sex with you.”

“Do you honestly think I was only in this for the sex? Do I seem that shallow to you?”

“N-no, of course not. But it was part of the bargain.”

“Mòrag, let me make one thing clear: you don’t owe me sex. You don’t owe Mor Ardain an heir, either. The only person you owe anything to is yourself. You owe it to yourself to heal, no matter how long it takes. Sex is a privilege, not a right. And yeah, I hope that someday it’s a privilege we’re able to share with each other. But not until you’re ready.”

“What if I never am?” 

“Then we’ll adopt a kiddo or something. But let’s see what happens, okay? Tonight’s only night one of an entire lifetime. We’ll cross that bridge if and when we need to.”

Mòrag fought back a tear. Only this time it was not a tear from sadness, but from sheer relief. He heard the truth and didn’t even flinch. Her scars, her abuse, the cover-up, how she nearly gave up and threw everything away—he  _ didn’t care.  _ All these years, she feared that anyone who found out would make the whole thing public, destroying the little sphere of solace she managed to create, dragging Niall down with it. And when the concept of marriage was first proposed, there’d been the terrorizing thought that every night of her marriage, she’d be forced by some nobleman to escape to that place in the back of her mind, letting the voice shelter her from the sensations, from the memories. But now, Zeke actually respected her choices? And he wasn’t going to push intimacy onto her? It felt too good to be true.

“You’re a good man, Zeke,” she whispered, slipping her hand into his. 

“...Can I just ask one thing?”

She nodded. He had that right.

“I always knew that you entered this whole arranged marriage so Niall wouldn’t have to get married so young. And now that you’ve told me all this, it makes even more sense why you’re so hellbent on protecting him. So...I can respect why you tried to force yourself into this. But I need to know. All of what’s happened between us since the gala: was it all forced? W-was any of it real?”

“I’ve been lying to everyone for so long that sometimes I can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s fake anymore,” Mòrag began, choking back a guilty tear. “But I do know that of all the men I could have married, I’m...I’m glad it ended up being you.”

“So the kisses were forced, then.”

“They were at first, but…” She took his face in her hands and brought it close to her own. Were those tears? Where a month ago, she might have hesitated to kiss him, now the gesture felt natural, secure, instinctive. His lips quivered, but they were soft, and no betrayal lurked behind them. “But I think they’re real now.”

Relief spread across his face as they parted...until his expression broke as a loud, gaping yawn slipped out and drew a weak laugh from them both. “It’s been a long day. Should we get some sleep? I can go crash in Pandy’s room if you like.”

“Please stay,” Mòrag said. “I don't mind the company. And the servants would gossip if you were seen sleeping anywhere else.”

“You sure? I don't want to upset you again.”

“We’ve slept in close quarters before. It's fine.”

“ ‘Kay. But you have total permission to slap me hard if I ever do anything to upset you, even by accident.”

Mòrag smirked. “Now that's tempting.”

“Oi, don't get carried away with it. You know what I meant.” He replaced his pillow and made himself comfortable. “Goodnight.”

“...Thank you, Zeke.” Mòrag pulled the covers over them as she lay down, nuzzling close enough to soak in his warmth. She let her hand fall to his chest again. The room went quiet, and the only sound she heard was his smooth, rhythmic breathing and the steady pulse of his heartbeat.

For once, the voice was silent.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope this chapter was less painful to read than the last one. I certainly enjoyed writing it more. I took a few liberties with the dates/timing of the Gormott/Ardainian conflicts in this chapter, so if you’re splitting hairs on my faithfulness to the game’s lore, know that it was intentional on my part. 
> 
> Adding in an implied cameo appearance for Nia’s Driver was an afterthought, but I’m glad I did. After the last chapter, Morag really needed a friend, and it seemed plausible to have them interact at some point. Both Nia/her driver and Morag lived in Gormott at some point, so why not make those overlap? Yes, Elsie didn’t necessarily “do” much for Morag, and she wasn’t there very long. But she was her friend. And that always counts. Never discount how big an impact you can have on someone’s life simply by being their friend with no strings attached. It could literally change someone’s world.
> 
> That closes the backstory section. Phew. Now back to the conflicts that have been on the backburner for 25k+ words!


	14. Cats, Dogs, & Mice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're back to the "present"...and the day after the wedding is a disappointment for everyone.

Ciaran cleared his throat. “They’re back, my lord.”

“About damn time. Send them in.”

The pilots trailed in. Cor noted that they were less on-edge than usual. That probably boded well for their kneecaps...and their necks. 

“Is it done, gentlemen?” Pachnall asked.

“Yes, Boss. Blown to smithereens. It was a beautiful dust cloud.”

“And you made sure that our merry band of Ardainians was not  _ in  _ the base when it exploded, correct?”

Each man in the line shook his head violently.

“Good. I still need that woman in one piece. I’m not quite finished with her yet.”

Pachnall shooed the men away, and they scurried off like mice. The Aramach leader gave a contented sigh. He pulled open one of his desk drawers and took out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Cor, my friend, let’s have a toast.”

Cor paused. Something about Pachnall still rubbed him the wrong way. The man was a lot like himself—almost too like himself. Maybe that was why Cor now found himself as Pachnall’s left-hand man behind Ciaran. Despite that similarity, something about Pachnall’s tenacity, his drive to accomplish some mysterious goal ran far deeper than Cor’s own. That mystery left Cor constantly tense around his so-called benefactor. And he was no fool; one wrong move and Pachnall would hand him poisoned wine.

However, it had been months since he’d last tasted good champagne. The offer was too tempting to refuse.

“A toast to what, Boss?”

“To secrets and deceptions, my friend. Worth far more than any gold. And far more effective.”

Cor took a long swig of his drink, letting crispness of the bubbles stimulate his nostrils and tastebuds. “Why the bombing, Boss? I thought we were going after Mor Ardain, not Uraya. And you brought me in to distract the Inquisitor, but you haven’t sent me out in weeks. What’s really going on?”

“You’re a curious man, Cor, which makes you such an asset to me. Tell me: how does a mouse manage to wound a cat?”

“I have no idea.”

“By leading her to a dog. She might survive the encounter, but she’ll be far too weak to fight back when the mouse returns with a swarm of his own kin.” Pachnall’s eyes glinted like steel.

“You’re speaking cryptically again, Boss. I don’t understand.”

The Driver drained his glass before responding. He licked his lips. “Mor Ardain and Uraya will take the bait and try to rip out each other’s throats. My man on the inside should send us word any day now. And when they do, I’m going to grow my own army.”

“You mean, add new members to the Aramach? How?”

Pachnall grinned. “Simple. I’ll let them out of their cages.”

* * *

“Morning.”

The quiet voice pulled Mòrag from the last vestiges of sleep—it was too unfamiliar to really ignore. She rubbed her eyes, not bothering to sit up. The motion left dark streaks on her fingers. “This is why I don’t wear this infernal makeup.”

Zeke laughed, his volume level brightening now that she was fully awake. “Well, it looked good. Until now, that is. Also, I never pegged you for a blanket hog.”

Mòrag looked at the covers, still cocooned around her figure with hardly a corner left for him. “Sorry. I-I’m not used to sharing. Were you cold?”

“Nah, it’s good. Once you cuddled up next to me and stole the blankets, you hardly ever moved, actually.”

Awareness kicked in, and she realized that, at some point in the night, she nestled herself even closer to him, her arm slung completely across his torso. Her fingers tingled against Pandoria’s core crystal fragment. She sat up, suddenly feeling guilty. That part of him, at least, would always be his Blade’s. And there was something else, too…

_ Oh, you mean the fact that you got him all riled up last night and then cut him off just as he was starting to enjoy himself? Don’t pretend you didn’t see that he was into it. But you robbed him of that and then drove him mad all night by cuddling him. That’s a mean way to tease him. _

No. It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t teasing. He’d been so understanding when he heard the truth.  _ “You owe it to yourself to heal, no matter how long it takes.”  _ After hearing something so kind, so forgiving, falling asleep against him had just happened. She couldn’t help it. For the first time, a man’s arms felt safe. And she’d half expected that, after telling the tale, the night would be plagued by nightmares. But she didn’t recall any. Was that because her subconscious knew she wasn’t alone?

“...Did I say anything odd in my sleep?”

“Don’t tell me you’re a sleeptalker.”

“Not really. I just, sometimes when I have a nightmare, Brighid says that I mumble. Or at least I used to.”

“Nah, you were out like a light...So what do we do now?”

“Now we figure out married life, I suppose. Although—”

A loud knock on the door cut her off. 

Zeke rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kidding me. Bugging us the day after our wedding? You’re joking, right?” He raised his voice to be heard by whoever knocked. “Unless you’re bringing room service, go away!”

Brighid’s voice was muffled by the door, but her annoyance was still clear. “I’m afraid your breakfast will have to wait. You’re both needed in the council chamber at once.”

“Yeesh, thanks for the relaxing honeymoon,” Zeke groaned.

“We’ll be there in a moment, Brighid,” Mòrag called. Niall explicitly promised them a few days off. He wouldn’t go back on that promise without good reason. Whatever the reason was, it had to be urgent. 

Zeke continued to grumble under his breath as they got ready, taking turns to shower hurriedly and dress in the bathroom. It seemed so foreign having him there and not Brighid; he was certainly more talkative than her Blade. 

Once Mòrag finished her own shower and slipped back into her uniform, she felt a little more herself. Architect, it felt good to have on pants again. Even if yesterday’s ceremony only lasted a day, the whole wearing a dress portion of it seemed to last ten times as long. And as she buttoned her blouse, she fell back into a rhythm. First the blouse, then the military jacket, then her boots with the pant legs tucked inside. Hair up in a ponytail, then pinned into a flat bun so it would fit underneath her hat. Everything as it should be. 

Well, almost. When she pulled on her gloves to complete her routine ensemble, she quickly discovered that the left one no longer fit. The white gloves had been painstakingly tailored to fit each finger—no extra fabric to impede her movement while fighting, providing just the right amount of grip. But now, with Zeke’s ring occupying one finger, the glove was uncomfortable and unwieldy. She’d need new ones; not wearing the ring wasn’t an option. People would ask questions. But more importantly, every time she looked at it, she was reminded of Zeke’s thoughtfulness and how sweet he’d been. Deep down, she feared that his kindness still might fade like a soon-forgotten daydream. But the ruby was a constant reminder otherwise. So the gloves stayed behind.

“You ready?” Zeke asked when she reemerged from the bathroom. He was back to normal, too with his wide open overshirt, leather belts, and all.

She nodded, unable to shake the feeling that they were about to be plunged into something chaotic. What she’d give for a simple moment’s peace. And coffee. Or something to eat. But that would just have to wait. 

“Let’s go, then.” 

When they stepped back into the hallway, Brighid was still there, leaning against the opposite wall as she waited for them. There was a tense exchange of “good mornings”; no one quite knew what to say beyond that. 

“Is Pandy already there?” Zeke asked.

Brighid shook her head. “I believe she’s still in her chambers.”

“I-I’ll go get her,” he volunteered awkwardly, turning to move down the hall. 

“Zeke—” Mòrag began.

He understood her warning of secrecy before she even said it. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ll catch up to you.”

He trotted off, and Mòrag turned on her heel and headed in the opposite direction towards Niall’s council chamber. Brighid fell in step directly beside her, not her normal position a pace or two behind.

“What’s going on?” Mòrag asked, trying to fill the silence with something other than their footsteps. 

“It’s not something you should hear from me. I’ll let the Emperor explain.”

Even from her peripheral vision, Mòrag could see Brighid stealing sideways glances at her. More than once, the fire Blade opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and shut it again. Her brows furrowed in an odd way, too. The not-so-subtle attention made the hairs on the back of Mòrag’s neck stand up.

“ _ Please  _ stop looking at me like that,” Mòrag said at last, stopping short to face her companion. “If you have something to say, out with it.”

Brighid raised a hand defensively. “I don’t intend to pry, Lady Mòrag. But...I am curious about how things went last night.”

“It went exactly as you expected it would. We tried. I panicked. It was awkward. Now if you intend to smother me in ‘I-told-you-sos,’ please get it over with.”

Her Blade kept silent; her face froze in that impassive, sympathetic look that only she could manage. The conversation lulled stiffly.

“I told him everything. Zeke knows,” Mòrag blurted.

Brighid nodded approvingly. “Good. I’m glad you opened up to him about it.”

“Why? Now he just knows that he deserves so much better than me.”

“You are an incredibly strong woman, Mòrag. You had to be to survive. I’m sure Zeke recognizes that strength. But you don’t honestly think that I’ve been oblivious all these years, do you? I know that deep down, you feel guilty about hiding the truth from everyone. You’ve let it haunt you. I think by telling him, you may be able to step out from under that guilt. Granted, this marriage is not the fate I would have chosen for you myself. But now that it is a reality, I would love to see you enjoy a fulfilling relationship with him. And it’s my belief that telling him might be a step in that direction.”

“I hope you’re right. But now’s not the time for that.”

In a matter of minutes, they were outside the council chamber; tense voices could be heard from within. The sound made her stomach curdle. But she and her Blade waited until Zeke and Pandoria joined them. Better to minimize disturbances now.

The moment they entered the room, Mòrag could tell the situation was as urgent as she’d feared. The officials in attendance proved it. From the Senate, there were the heads of all the major political parties: Carrow for Brionac, Birall for Gardic, and Byrne for Ceartas. Ceartas was moderate and much smaller than its Brionac and Gardic counterparts. For such a small portion of the Senate to be represented here meant that this was a council of dire importance. Furthermore, surrounding the Senators were several of the highest ranking officers in the military. And of course, all of Niall’s personal advisors were present. A table of such influence could only mean…

Mòrag took her seat beside Niall, trying to ignore all the looks shot her way. Did everyone have to keep looking at her like she grew a second head? Yes, they were out in public the day after the wedding—but did they really have to stare at her for it? 

She forced her thoughts to return to the situation at hand as Niall cleared his throat.

“Special Inquisitor. Prince Ozychlyrus,” he began, “I regret that I had to disturb you so soon. You deserve some time away together, and for that, I cry you mercy. But regrettably, the circumstance demands it.” Niall’s voice faltered as he fought back tears. “As soon as the ceremony came to a close yesterday, Uraya declared war.”

_ Damn. Not even two years in Elysium, and we’re already at each other’s throats again,  _ she thought. But she forced her initial anger down. Right now, Niall needed her to be steady, calculating, resourceful. Not impetuous. “On what grounds?”

“They’ve cited a combination of several things: our refusal to halt the alliance between Mor Ardain and Tantal, the Aegis’s presence in the demilitarized zone, and of course, our recent raid on their base to recover the Aegis.”

“All of those are legally sanctioned actions. And Raqura’s still declaring war?” Zeke asked, his voice unusually calm.

“She claims that there was an unnecessary amount of force used in the rescue. Something about the fact that thirty casualties were caused by a single blast of lightning,” Niall explained.

Mòrag hung her head. “The blame for those casualties is mine. I lost my cool attempting to rescue Brighid from the Urayans. My apologies, Your Majesty.”

“If that were all,” Niall sighed, “we could still convince them to accept reparations. But we’ve received reports that shortly after you all fled the Urayan garrison with the Aegis and her Driver, an Ardainian airship bombed it, reducing the entire area to ash. In retaliation, Urayan forces are marching on our borders.”

“Impossible! No such order was issued. That wasn’t us.”

“Comparing Uraya’s reports to the information Rex uncovered while he was gone,” Brighid interjected, “it seems that the Aramach are to blame. They likely fired on the base from a pirated airship in hopes that a war between our countries would protect them from our investigations.”

“Those bastards have Ardainian airships?” Pandoria gasped, ignoring the glares she got from a few courtiers for her word choice. “It’s like Temperantia all over again.”

Niall nodded. “According to Rex, they have several. While we don’t have precise details yet, the reports indicate that they’ve acquired stolen vessels dating back more than a decade past to as recently as two years ago. The most notable among them is the Artigo, which, according to the records, was stolen from the state docks approximately fifteen years ago. It was one of my father’s best warships.”

“How on earth did anyone manage to steal such an important vessel?”

Brighid inhaled sharply. Mòrag shot her a questioning look, but the emperor’s voice distracted them.

“The records do not give a name. They simply state that he was a convicted felon evading his sentence. But it seems he’s at least partly to blame for our current predicament.” 

“Why am I the last to hear these reports?” Mòrag demanded. “Surely we aren’t just finding out all of these details.”

Brighid cleared her throat. “I’ve been spearheading the investigation on your behalf, my lady. You’ve been so busy lately that I hoped to lighten your load by handling the Aramach case myself. I’m deeply sorry that I did not tell you sooner.”

“Just see to it that it doesn’t happen again.”

A lengthy discussion ensued, ranging from how to bolster defences at the border to whether Mor Ardain should take a defensive approach to the ensuing battles (which sparked a heated debate between Brionac and Gardic). Mòrag found it difficult to focus for much of it. Was this somehow her fault? Yes, Urayan tensions were historically strained. The marriage brought those tensions to a head. Could she have chosen someone else and avoided all of this? Uraya would not object to a union with one of her countrymen, would they? Senator Birall would have been a logical choice. But Zeke’s proposal, unexpected though it was at the time, felt like the easy way out. And looking back on it, Zeke was probably the best choice...at least for her own personal well-being. No one else would have been so understanding after hearing last night’s tale. Most Ardainian noblemen probably would have used it as an opportunity to gain control over the throne. But was Zeke the selfish choice? Had her desire to protect her past and shelter Niall thrown their country into an otherwise avoidable war?

And then came the matter of the Aramach; she neglected that investigation, choosing to focus on the pressing details of the alliance and the wedding. How could she let herself be so distracted? Maybe if she focused on tracking down Cor and his accomplices instead, she would have found them before they managed to further inflame international tensions. They were fortunate to have persuaded Uraya to maintain a shaky peace twice with the explanation that a third party was involved. First Jin’s meddling at Temperantia, then the Aramach’s scheme to pose as Ardainian military in the demilitarized zone; Niall would not be able to dissuade Uraya after a third instance. Even from their perspective, it was beginning to look like the boy who cried volff. And she’d gotten no closer to uncovering the spy in their midst, either. 

“Your Majesty, the time for peace with Uraya is over!” Senator Carrow insisted, his voice louder than propriety demanded. “The crown must take decisive action.”

“For once, I agree with the Brionac party. I doubt we will agree how to handle the aftermath of the conflict, but Mor Ardain must respond,” Senator Birall added.

Mòrag bit back a rebuttal. The look in Niall’s eyes—anyone at the table would say he looked brave, kingly, unfazed, but she could see the disappointment there. He fought so hard to maintain peace, and now it was all unraveling. Half of this was  _ their  _ fault, she realized. If the Senate hadn’t been so intent on ousting Niall, then the entire arranged marriage would never have happened. Uraya wouldn’t be declaring war. Now was not the time to openly criticize the Senate, however. But Architect, she wanted to.

“If the crown cannot be relied on to defend Mor Ardain from the Urayan menace, then it may be time for the Senate to take action,” Carrow continued, thinly veiling his smile. 

The entire table fell silent...except for Zeke. The prince slammed his palms against the table and stood, nearly toppling his chair in the process. 

“I’ve had enough of your ardunshit, Senators,” Zeke hissed, not even giving them the respect of eye contact. “We all know you want the throne, so you may as well stop hiding behind your dumb bill. Which is useless, by the way. Even if you did manage to pass your no-confidence vote, the throne would just fall to his sister. Do you honestly think you can vote your way through three heirs?”

“Lady Mòrag would not ascend—”

“Ardainian statute thirty-seven, article three, section six: in the event that there is a female heir, she may ascend the throne, provided she is married,” Zeke recited, interrupting Carrow. “And section seven adds that her husband, if he is of royal blood, is her natural successor. So you’re welcome to continue trying your petty little power play, but believe me, you’d have something to truly be upset about if you voted them both out. Because I’d put you ungrateful whelps in your place. 

“You’re familiar with our laws?” Senator Byrne asked.

“What do you think I did leading up to the wedding, eat waxed fruit? Of course I am. Seriously, chaps. How dare you imply that Emperor Niall is anything but a great leader?” Zeke continued. “It’s easy to try to knock sense into other countries by simply blowing them out of the water. And yeah, I get it. Mor Ardain has the firepower to accomplish that. But that’s the easy way out, the coward’s choice. That’s the path Amalthus took, and you lost your Titan thanks to him. Do you want to lose Elysium, too? Niall doesn’t, I mean, His Majesty doesn’t. That’s why he’s trying to keep conflict with Uraya to a minimum. Yeah, that approach is harder, but it’s the right thing to do. Especially now. So if you’re intent on voting him out of his office, just know that you’d be kicking out one of the best things to ever happen to this country.”

For several agonizing seconds, Senators and courtiers alike gaped at the prince’s outburst. Even Brighid’s irises shone in her shock. Senator Carrow looked as though he’d been slapped. 

“I knew I liked that guy,” a commanding officer whispered. 

Niall cleared his throat to hide the grateful little smile forming on his lips. “Is there anything else you wish to say, Prince Zeke?”

Zeke sat down. “No. Not for now, anyway.”

Underneath the table, Morag gave his hand a single grateful squeeze.

“Well, then,” Niall continued. “Gentlemen, I understand your concerns for decisive action. And I agree that Mor Ardain must be protected. We will take decisive action. But against whom we take those actions is paramount. Currently Uraya marches on our borders; we will do what we must to defend them. However, it behooves my station to remind the court that we are now fighting a war on two fronts: with Uraya and the Aramach. The latter is the crux of the conflict. We would be remiss to waste Urayan blood when the true foe lies within our borders already.”

“What do you propose then, your Majesty?”

“We fortify our borders, focusing on the front facing Uraya, and hold that position as long as possible with as little bloodshed as we can manage. Meanwhile, we dedicate our best resources to finding and neutralizing the Aramach threat once and for all.”

One of the commanding officers for the military’s navy spoke up. “If I may, Your Majesty, we do not have adequate resources to defend ourselves against Urayan heavy artillery  _ and  _ go combing the wastes for these criminals. We’d be spread too thin. Uraya would penetrate our defenses immediately.”

“By ‘resources,’ I was not referring to military resources. Rather, I was referring to some old friends of mine. In my opinion, they’re the best team for the task.” Here he nodded to Mòrag and Zeke. “Special Inquisitor, do you believe the Aegis and her Driver would be willing to assist us further in this affair? Can I rely on your team for this?”

“Your Majesty, I can’t speak for Rex, but I do believe he would like to avoid involvement in a conflict with Uraya,” Mòrag replied. “Impartiality is his preference. However—”

Zeke completed her thought. “If it means punching up some criminal scum, Rex will probably be down for that. That’s justice, not politics.”

“Excellent. Once their base has been located, I will authorize any military force necessary to dispatch them once and for all. Gentlemen, if you have any objections, I will hear them now.”

“Your Majesty is in the right that the Aramach must be stopped,” Senator Birall agreed, much to the chagrin of Carrow beside him. “And the Aegis, Master Rex, and their companions have saved us once before. Architect grant them the luck to do so again. I fear they’ll need it.”

No further objections were raised. Niall stood; the court rose with him. 

“Well then, my lords, I leave the details of defending our borders in your capable hands. Architect protect us all. You are dismissed.”

The military leaders were the quickest to leave, and Mòrag almost followed them. No doubt they’d be outside her office requesting final authorizations within the hour. But a meaningful glance from Niall held her back. 

Even when the entire court had filtered out of the room, leaving them alone, Niall remained silent. He stared at the throne on the opposite end of the hall. Mòrag waited for him to speak, torn between the desire to hold him close while he cried—she could tell he fought back tears—and the duty of maintaining their respective positions. She hated these moments most of all. When he did cry, he looked so lonely, and it took all her self-control not to keep herself at arm’s length.

The truth might only make the tears worse. And so she stayed his Inquisitor, his shield, his sister.

“I am truly sorry about this, Mòrag,” Niall said at last. “I promise, when this is over, you may have as much leave time as you desire.”

“You needn’t apologize. As always, duty comes first.”

He sighed. “Everything I’ve done until now, it was all for nothing. I tried so hard to avoid a war, yet here we are. My efforts were futile. Should I have even bothered? Or is it Mor Ardain’s fate to stain the pages of history with blood?”

“We have always been a military state, Your Majesty,” Mòrag pointed out. “Minds are not easily changed. It will take more than a few years of your reign to accomplish that.”

Niall turned his attention to the portraits on the walls: his own, and those of the emperors before him. His image stood in sharp relief compared to the others—nearly childish innocence contrasted with war-hardened emperors, men of conquest and valor. The current ruler focused on the painting directly beside his. Emperor Nealon. A military ruler through and through, he’d been.

“Father would have done what the Senate wanted. He would have met Uraya with equal force,” Niall sighed. “But...I don’t want to be like my father, Mòrag. I want to do what’s right for the world, not just Mor Ardain.”

_ You’re a better man than both of them, Niall,  _ she thought. “It takes a lot of courage to forge your own path, especially when history pulls so strongly in the opposite direction. For that, you have my admiration, and as always, my full support.”

“Thank you, sister. Please do everything in your power to locate and neutralize the Aramach as quickly as possible. I fear Mor Ardain’s survival depends on it.”

* * *

Meanwhile, Zeke had exited the council chamber and trotted through the halls to find Rex and the others. Doubtless Mòrag would scold him later for his outburst—even in Tantal’s court, his tone would have been regarded as rude. But he couldn’t help himself. Even before learning the truth about the young emperor, he fought down the urge to tell off the Senate. Pompous arses, the lot of them. So when Carrow’s not-so-subtle mention of a no-confidence vote against Niall surfaced at the council, his frustration had come rushing out. 

Not that he regretted it, either. Even if the Senate was clueless to all that Mòrag and Niall had endured, couldn’t they see that now was not the time to overthrow the ruler? Selfish thinking like that had nearly buried Tantal. Mor Ardain couldn’t afford it, either. And if strict social norms kept Mòrag from standing up for the kid emperor, he sure as hell would. 

_ Maybe a trip with Rex and the others will be just what I need,  _ he thought. It wasn’t like him to lose his temper. But so much had changed in the last month. And Hardhaigh Palace, while elegant, just wasn’t his style. After years sloughing it in the wild with Pandoria, he felt most at home around a campfire or crashing at an inn. 

He made his way through the palace’s residential quarter. Rex and the others were staying in one of the guest suites at the end of the hall, but even from here, he could hear them shouting and laughing. He almost dreaded telling them; Rex might cry over the news. And who could blame him? Rex sacrificed more than anyone else to get them here, where peace should have lasted indefinitely. 

To his left, a door opened. Before he quite realized what was happening—that side had next to no peripheral vision—he found himself being yanked by the collar into the room. His captor was surprisingly strong, and he didn’t manage to get a good look at the person until the door was slammed behind him, locked. 

“Brighid?”

He took a look around. Brighid, who’d originally hated the idea of living separate from her Driver, had certainly taken to decorating her own apartments. Her style permeated the room, as did the scent of perfume. Whereas her Driver’s decorating tastes were understated and traditional, Brighid’s were showy but classy, with tasteful pops of color in the drapes and cushions. Not for the last time was he struck by the stark contrast in the two women’s personalities. Although now he understood why one steered clear of an overtly feminine style. And honestly, he preferred it. Opulence drove him crazy.

Brighid hadn’t let go of his collar. Her hand was uncomfortably warm against his chest, as if she was considering lighting him on fire if he said the wrong thing.

“You know, Brighid, some might consider this inappropriate behavior. I am a married man now,” he joked.

The fires atop the Blade’s head surged a moment as she scowled. He still hadn’t decided who was more terrifying when angry: Driver or Blade. Regardless, that was a poor choice of words. But what was he supposed to do with Brighid cornering him like this?

The Blade cut to the chase. “Mòrag tells me you know the truth now.”

Ah, so  _ that  _ was why she’d abducted him. Typical Brighid. “Yeah. She told me last night.”

“Zeke, I swear on my core, if you ever breathe a word of what she told you to a single soul living or dead, I will—”

“Oi, I’m sure you’ve come up with a very creative death threat to scare me into silence, but just save it for someone else. You’ve got nothing to fear from me. I have no intention of betraying Mòrag’s trust.”

Brighid searched his expression. Then her eyebrows relaxed, as if her keen eye found no evidence of dishonesty. She released his collar. “Good. In truth, I’m glad she told you. But it  _ must _ be confidential.”

“I won’t say a word.”

The Blade nodded and looked away, as if she now regretted accosting him. “...Thank you for treating her with such respect, Zeke. A lesser man would not have been so understanding on his wedding night.”

“Wait, a compliment from Brighid? Did hell freeze over?”

“I don’t give them often. So savor it.” Brighid unlocked the door and opened it to let him back into the hall.

“That’s it?” he asked. “No blood oath to keep me quiet?”

She shook her head. “I just had to be sure. You understand, don’t you?”

He nodded and exited the room, eager to get away from the overpowering scent. In the past, he’d always felt like there was something  _ different  _ about Brighid; she was one of the most Driver-protective Blades he ever met. It had almost bothered him; he’d steered clear of her for the most part. Only now did he appreciate just how deep Mòrag and Brighid’s relationship was. No wonder Brighid didn’t want her Driver to take on some of her own core. 

“Oi, Brighid,” he said, pausing a few paces away from her door. “Look, I don’t know how often Mòrag tells you this, but you mean a lot to her. I guess what I’m trying to say is, thanks for being there for her through all of that shit. If she hadn’t survived it, if Niall hadn’t...I don’t think any of us would still be here. So thanks.”

Brighid gave a tense nod. “I could do no less.”

* * *

“That will be all. You are dismissed,” Mòrag sighed.

Finally, a chance to be alone. The afternoon had been nothing but an endless stream of meetings, heated discussions, and as many rejected plans as approved ones. It would have been better without the variations of “congratulations on your wedding” and the inquisitive glances she received from every officer lined up outside her office. She wished that everyone would just stop mentioning it; each time someone brought it up, the mixed feelings of guilt and relief resurfaced.

She glanced over the maps again, her eyes tracing the penned-in supply routes and garrisons she spent the afternoon setting up. Hopefully the lines of defence would hold. They had to. Without the bulk of their thermal industry, Mor Ardain still scrambled to invent new military technologies with the resources available on Alrest. As a result, much of their ground defense remained weak. On that front, Uraya doubtless had them outmatched. Thankfully, most of the Ardainian navy survived their Titan’s collapse; Uraya had never managed to rival their might in the clouds. They had to hope, then, that the air superiority would hold them long enough. 

In any other circumstance, Mòrag would pack a bag and depart for the front herself. But with the Aramach wreaking havoc, she was forced to entrust the leadership duties to General Haig. He was a good man and a great warrior, but she did not know whether his loyalties belonged to the military alone, to the Emperor, or to the Senate. It was so difficult to track the webs of power, influence, and allegiance anymore. She whispered a prayer or two that Haig would follow his orders to the letter. One wrong move and all their plans would shatter. 

She debated going to the training grounds and burning away some of this anxious energy; it felt wrong to be sitting still when Uraya’s vanguard inched closer by the hour. But she thought better of it; Brighid had finally handed over the Aramach case file, and if they were to have any luck in tomorrow’s search, she needed to sift through the information.

The file itself sat, disappointingly thin, on her desk. Her fingers tingled as she opened it. Most of the pages held information she already knew: Cor’s personnel records, the confirmed sightings of Aramach members in Ardainian uniforms, and a few of their previous identities. As far as she could tell, many were Ardainain, but they came from all walks of life: exiled merchant guild loyalists, Indoline who’d been kicked out for continued practice of flesh-fusing technologies, disenchanted Urayans, Gormotti who were discontent with the Ardainian occupation, and even some Flesh Eaters. If there was a common thread between them, she could not find it. They were mostly escaped criminals or simple folks down on their luck.

_ There has to be something here. Someone with a connection to the palace. Why can’t I find it?  _

It felt like the answer was just beyond her nose, taunting her by hiding in plain sight. 

“Hey, Special Inquisitor? I was wondering if you could help me find my wife. I’m told she’s around here somewhere.”

The voice pulled her out of focus and she looked up. Zeke, with two plates in hand. No Pandoria trailing him. For some reason, that made her feel more at ease.

“Zeke. Just how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that you make a really cute face when you’re focused,” Zeke commented, crossing over to her desk. “Now clear up your desk. It’s high time we had dinner.”

“There’s no time for that,” she protested. “I still have to prepare for tomorrow’s expedition, and there’s still a mountain of paperwork to file before we leave.”

He pulled on one of the maps and set it aside. “And all that prep will go to waste if you collapse. You haven’t eaten since the reception yesterday.”

“Yes, I have.”

He took a quick glance into the trash receptacle beside her desk. An apple core peaked out from underneath discarded paper.

“An apple? Seriously? That hardly even counts as a snack.” He set a plate in front of her and brought over a spare chair to sit beside her. 

She scowled. “Please don’t start coddling me because of what I told you last night. I don’t need pity. I can’t stand it.”

“This has nothing to do with last night. I’d do this for any of my friends, and you know it. Now quit being stubborn and eat.”

She bit back her further protests. The smell of the plate in front of her had rekindled the hunger she buried during the day’s meetings. What was this now, the second time he brought her food?

_ And all you’ve ever done to repay his kindness is lie to him.  _

They sat, chewing in silence for an uncomfortably long time. She choked down a few roasted carrots, and in a matter of minutes, her mood lifted a bit. But was that due to Zeke’s presence or improved blood sugar after a hectic day without food? 

“Thanks for this.” 

He waved it off. “No need. Just trying to avoid burying you a few days after marrying you. Talk about awkward. Honestly, it’s a wonder you haven’t worked yourself to death already.”

“...I have a bad habit of burying myself in work when I’m stressed about something.”

“Yeah. I know,” Zeke sighed. “You know what? I think we should make a rule for ourselves now that we’re married: no talking about work over dinner. Ever. Sound good?”

“Why would we do that?”

“So there’s more to our relationship than just work. Unless you want us to always keep this professional.”

“Fair point. Very well,” she agreed, hoping her own inaptitude for small talk wouldn’t be too obvious. “What exactly do you want to talk about instead?”

“Um, I dunno. You like reading, right? What’s your favorite book?”

“Well—”

She never had the chance to finish her answer; Brighid burst into the room.

“Mòrag, we have another problem,” the Blade said, not even bothering to take inventory of the room’s occupants.

She pushed her half-finished plate away. Judging by Brighid’s expression, she wouldn’t want to finish it the moment she communicated her message. Architect, what else could possibly go wrong today?

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“There’s been a spotting of the Artigo. We have a lead on the Aramach.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Zeke asked hopefully.

“Yes and no,” Brighid replied somberly. “The airship was firing on Ardainian territory. Mòrag, they attacked sector twenty-seven.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Twenty-seven was the prison sector, and the highest security one at that.

“Phriosune Prison—it’s completely empty. Every cell. The Aramach broke them all out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the last two "mega" flashback chapters, this one felt almost short! Now we're in the thick of it (as if things weren't messy enough already). ;)
> 
> Plotting out the upcoming chapters is proving tricky. Full disclosure: I keep getting distracted by all the fluffy scenes I have planned. I even wrote a couple sections (like I got 5+ chapters ahead of myself), which is why it took me all weekend to get this one posted. Maybe it's a coping mechanism after the weighty chapters we just finished. Focus, Jeli. Focus! Anyway, I'm looking forward to sharing them with you!


	15. The Dragon's Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this chapter, Inheritance is now the longest fic under the Morag/Zeke tag (at least on ao3). Does that make me the captain of this ship? Not that it matters, of course, but I'm just here deriving joy from the little things. ;)

Ordinarily, Phriosune Prison etched a foreboding figure onto the horizon. The structure was one of the few things that did not require much reconstruction when the Titan crashed into Elysium. Mor Ardain had practically fallen face first onto the new continent’s shores, and in turn, most of its buildings crumbled in the impact, as did the bulk of the Titan’s limbs. However, Phriosune had been located deep in the near-forgotten wastes along the Titan’s back. Sheltered there from the worst of the impact (and reinforced by Mor Ardain’s spine) Phriosune Prison had maintained its structural integrity. 

Until now. Where once rose impressive spires rigged with ether-imaging surveillance cameras now swirled great plumes of smoke and clouds of ash. Hardly a single stone remained in an upright position. Patrols no longer scanned for unruly prisoners but rather survivors. Waves of heat thrown from still-lit fires made the entire scene dizzying to behold.

Mòrag stood outside at the perimeter of the wreckage, her friends in tow. The sight struck them all dumb. According to the eyewitness reports—which were unreliable due to fresh shock—the chaos had originated  _ within  _ the facility. Some sort of explosion occurred in or around the facility’s ether ventilation shafts. The ensuing gas leak necessitated a mass evacuation of the prisoners into the main courtyard. Only when the prisoners were out in the open did the carnage of the event really begin.

A collection of pirated Ardainian airships had surrounded Phriosune’s courtyard. Half of these circled down into a boarding position to accept the fleeing prisoners. Most took the invitation gladly; those who broke off like lone wolves were shot down. Meanwhile, the other half of the Aramach’s airships unleashed a cascade of bombs and ammunition, leveling the facility they just emptied. And then the Aramach airships left as quickly as they came.

“I’m just going to say what we’re all thinking,” Rex began. “Shit.”

It was a sentiment Mòrag shared—and for a lot of reasons. With each passing day, the Aramach was looking less like a guild of criminals and more like an independent militia. And how had they gotten past the facility’s defensive perimeter? The airspace surrounding it required security codes, all of which were updated on a regular basis. Likewise, an interior explosion caused all sorts of questions. Shipments in and out of the prison were meticulously regulated by the Senate’s Justice Committee. The Senators often saw to the task personally; arguably, it should have been impossible for explosive materials to cross the facility’s threshold.

However, the most troubling thought came from the prison roster. Mòrag had read through it on the journey over. Many of the names she recognized as men she personally apprehended: murders, abusers, thieves, embezzlers...it was a long list. None of them would be exactly happy to see her. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that there weren’t people out there who wanted her head; that came as part of the job, and she long since reconciled herself to the fact that an assassination might be her fated end. Putting scumbags in prison always eased the stress of that reality. But now that so many of them were out, the stress was much harder to bury.

“Mòrag, what do you want us to do?”

She thought about it a moment; where should they even start? There were clues to search for, surveillance recordings to review, survivors to find, and much more. It would be a long afternoon. And since this was an Imperial matter, they’d be following her lead.

_ Architect, I need a vacation. _

“Tora, does Poppi still have her drill attachments?”

“Of course. What do?”

“You and Poppi help clear away some of this rubble. And keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Rex and Pyra, start looking for clues in the ether ventilation area. I need to know how that explosion started there.”

“Got it,” Pyra answered.

“Where do we find the vents? Or where they used to be?” Rex asked.

Mòrag pulled out a map of the facility and pointed to the general vicinity of the ether chambers, used to maintain the locking mechanisms and the power grid throughout the prison. “Look for anything that seems out of place.”

“ _ Everything _ is out of place.”

“Not the time, Pandy,” Zeke hissed.

With their orders, Rex, Pyra, Tora, and Poppi trotted off and set to work. Mòrag dispatched Nia and Dromarch to the assignment best suited to their talents: the makeshift infirmary. Doubtless their healing capabilities would do a lot more good than the field medics. Brighid also departed to send a partial report back to the capitol (there was a field communications office in the village about a mile away, where the prison staff made their homes). 

“And what do you want us to do?” Zeke asked. Pandoria continued to mimic his gestures in the background. 

“Take your pick of the tasks I gave everyone else. Or if you’d rather, you can come help me review the surveillance footage.”

“Gotcha.”

Both Driver and Blade tagged along with her as she moved to the surveillance building. Mercifully, that section of the prison system remained intact; it was housed separately from the main complex. At the time, critics contested that maintaining a separate structure was inefficient. Mòrag agreed, but now she was grateful for it. Maybe they could learn more from a surveillance tape than panicked eyewitness reports.

The room buzzed with activity—both the hum of electricity flowing through the equipment inside and the murmur of soldiers hard at work. But when they entered, the men went quiet. More than once, she caught whispers of, “What’s the Inquisitor doing here?” and “Didn’t they get married two days ago?” It was starting to get really old. 

“Who’s in charge here?” she asked, hoping some productivity would break up the uncomfortable silence. 

A soldier rushed forward, anxiety clear on his face. “Sargeant Keene, at your service, ma’am.” 

“I want to see the footage of the attack.” 

“Um, we’re still working on that, ma’am.”

“You don’t have the visual report prepared? What have you been doing all day?”

She should have seen the explanation coming: some form of remote ether interference had rendered the cameras useless during the attack. The interference did not prevent the ether cameras from recording, but it did scramble the images, rendering them unusable until well after the incident. That left the prison security team effectively blind. The team had been busy unscrambling the footage ever since. It was tedious work.

“Ciaran. He’s behind this,” she muttered to herself, making a mental note to track down records about Ciaran’s core crystal as soon as she got home.

“Isn’t that your old teacher’s Blade?” Zeke whispered.

“I suppose he’s found himself a new Driver...Sergeant Keene, show me what footage you do have.”

The footage simply served to confirm the eyewitness reports. The explosions originated inside the building, drawing the prisoners out, where they were rescued by Aramach’s airships. Nothing seemed amiss in the halls, around the cells, at the prison’s common areas, or elsewhere. Every guard had been on patrol as prescribed. And then the chaos ensued.

“Say, are there any cameras installed in the ether ventilation rooms?” Pandoria asked.

The soldier looked at her like she had asked the most obvious question in the world. “Of course there are. But a fat lot of good they do us. Anything within that room was blasted to bits.”

“No, Pandoria’s onto something,” Mòrag said in realization. “The cameras might be out during the attack, but in the moments before the blast, they were operational. Pull it up.”

At first, the recording was spectacularly unhelpful; all it did was loop a few seconds of an empty room before the entire screen lit up with brilliant red, then went blank. Over and over again. But when they played it back slower, they realized that the explosion itself originated from a single metal crate. A shipment of ether fuel cells, by the look of it.

“Stop the playback! There!” Zeke urged. He pointed at the box. “What’s that mark on the side of it?”

“Every shipment is marked with the crest of the Senator that authorized their delivery. The members of the Justice Committee oversee shipments here personally,” Mòrag explained. “Keene, who’s made deliveries within the last few weeks?”

“All of the records went up in the blast. As did the captain who would have known the shipments.”

“Damn it. Can you zoom in on the crate? Let us see it better.”

The man did as he was asked, but the crest emblazoned on the side of the crate only blurred.

“Recognize any of it, Mòrag? Anyone?”

She squinted, desperate for a better look. She could have sworn that she’d seen the mark before, but without the clarity of the distinguishing details—it was only the tiny elements that distinguished one crest from another—she couldn’t place the crest’s owners. It was not enough evidence to damn anyone, just arouse suspicion. 

“It’s too blurry. Can’t you get any closer?”

Keene shook his head, defeated. “We don’t maintain good cameras in the supply rooms, ma’am. That’s the best picture quality we can manage.”

_ Another dead end. How long will this bastard spy keep slipping through my fingers? _

Pandoria was the first to speak. “Should we go check with Rex? See if he’s found anything  _ in  _ the room that blew up?”

“She’s right, Mòrag. It’s worth a look.”

Finding the Aegis and her Driver was easy enough; Rex was digging through the rubble and searching for clues at such a frenzied pace that he threw dust clouds everywhere. If not for the gravity of the situation, it would have looked rather comical. Mòrag couldn’t help but wonder if Driver or Blade had started a dust-fight somewhere along the way. Rex’s salvager suit was covered in ashes.

“It’s not the Cloud Sea, Rex. You’re not supposed to swim in it!” Mythra scolded.

“Well you could be a bit more enthusiastic about helping. Mòrag  _ needs  _ us to find clues.”

“He’s right,” Mòrag said, alerting the pair to their presence. “Do you need help searching?”

Mythra shook her head. “Nope. Already found something.”

The Aegis held up a scrap of metal, idly tossing it back and forth from one hand to the other. 

“Mythra! You might have mentioned that a bit sooner!”

The Blade smirked. “Watching you swim through the rubble was entertaining, all right?” She tossed the piece to Mòrag. “It’s not much, but it looks like some sort of identifying mark. Probably from the box that caused the explosion.”

The scrap metal was still warm between her ungloved fingers, but not too hot to touch. The scrap itself took up most of her palm. But more importantly, most of it was covered in marks, the imprint of a crest.

By some miracle, the details of the crest were still sharp. Like most noble houses, this crest—or at least the parts of it she could see—maintained all the features of Mor Ardain’s crest: the Imperial shield, the sword running down its center, and the eagle’s wings behind it. But it was in the add-on elements whereby each noble house distinguished its crest; most houses chose to add on weapons, symbols of their houses, or a tribute to their family’s Blade. Usually the four corners of the shield took a different element. As a result, it was nearly impossible to remember every single house’s crest. But the archive room in the capitol maintained detailed records.

And luckily enough for Mòrag, this scrap of metal held a significant portion of the crest—enough to see a dragon head emblazoned on one of the four corners of the shield. Probably enough to identify its owner.

_ Finally, some luck at last. _

“Well? Do you recognize it?” Zeke asked.

She hesitated. “I swear I’ve seen it before, but I can’t recall where. Not many houses have a dragon on their crest.”

“But whoever it belongs to, that’s our guy? Right?” Rex added hopefully. “Like, only our spy would be shipping explosives in here. If we identify the crest, does that mean we’ve got him?”

Mòrag nodded. “I’ll be able to identify it. We’re closing in on him.”

That announcement drew a few excited cheers before their somber surroundings drew them back into a more respectful attitude. 

Busywork claimed the remainder of the day. Brighid ferried messages and reports back and forth between the field communications office. Zeke and Pandoria returned to the surveillance building to sift through additional footage. When she wasn’t busy answering questions or talking to the soldiers milling about, Mòrag helped Rex and the others sift through and clear the remaining rubble. No other clues surfaced, but the scrap of metal in her pocket gave her hope. Cutting off the spy from the Aramach would do Mor Ardain a world of good; perhaps, with enough questioning, he could lead her right to them. At the very least, the Aramach would have a much harder time blindsiding the crown with their man on the inside compromised. 

That hope alone made the day’s backbreaking work bearable. By the time the sun began to set, they were all thoroughly exhausted.

“Tora think he pulled every muscle in body,” the Nopon wailed when they were finally heading back into town for some well-deserved rest. 

One of the locals had offered them a ride in his wagon, promising to drop them off at the local inn. Mòrag hated to inconvenience a stranger, but even her muscles ached. The offer was too good to pass up. So she’d climbed in after Zeke, and her feet thanked her for it—as did her companions.

“Masterpon cannot pull what not exist,” Poppi replied. Her master simply groaned a feeble “meh-meh” beside her.

“Sheesh, Mòrag. Is that the kind of stuff you put up with every day?” Nia commented, massaging her sore palms. 

“It’s not usually quite this hectic, but yes. My position keeps me quite busy.”

“That’s a whole lot of daily nonsense to put up with,” Pyra added.

Rex chimed in. “And now she has to put up with Zeke every day, too. It’s a double dose of daily nonsense!”

“Oi, can it, you!” Zeke protested.

His voice held its usual dramatism as he pretended to be offended at Rex’s comment. But Mòrag could tell by the way his shoulder shook against hers that he was laughing. Leave it to Zeke to thrive off playful banter. Hang on—when had he put his arm around her? And since when did it feel so comfortable? Had he been doing it all day without her noticing? 

The gesture, as innocent as it was, was not lost on their companions. 

“Um, guys. Is it just me, or are we technically  _ with  _ Zeke and Mòrag while they’re on their honeymoon?” Nia asked. 

The question was met with a variety of snorts and giggles and a confused “what is honeymoon?” from Poppi, which only served to increase the laughter. Dromarch simply shook his head at his lady’s remark.

“Buzz  _ off,  _ kitty no-mates,” Zeke retorted, Pandoria mimicking his gestures from the other end of the wagon. 

“I really hate that nickname.”

“And I hate ‘Shellhead,’ but that didn’t stop you from slapping me with the nickname. And this isn’t our honeymoon, fuzzy. It’s a business trip.” 

“It’s your first trip together after your wedding. Pretty sure that’s what a honeymoon is, Shellhead.”

_ Not that it would have been much of a honeymoon thanks to me,  _ Mòrag thought, hoping she wasn’t going red at their comments. Were they ever going to grow bored of teasing? Maybe if she just played along, they’d move on to a different topic.

“If this is our honeymoon, then Zeke took me to a zoo, because you all are acting like animals.” 

That got quite the reaction from everyone. Most of them gasped that Mòrag of all people had joined in the banter; she usually stayed out of such things, only intervening when it got out of hand. Nia hissed playfully in response, twitching her ears. Mythra and Pandoria doubled over laughing.

“The  _ actual  _ animal of the group takes offense at that,” Dromarch purred. His tail flicked, punctuating his statement. “Please don’t loop me in with these hooligans.”

Before Nia or Rex could add in their own response, the wagon rattled to a halt in front of Sandra’s, the self-proclaimed “Best Inn Town” (albeit the only one). Not that anyone cared; just about any bed would do at this point. The group tumbled out of the wagon and entered the small establishment, more than doubling the noise level inside. 

It did not take long for the inn’s few guests to make the connection as to who had just entered. The innkeeper looked particularly starstruck. 

“Ah! Lady Mòrag! And Lord Zeke! I certainly never expected to see you two at my inn. Not now, anyway. How can your humble servant assist?” she asked, bobbing her head over and over in tiny little bows. After the seventh awkward head bobble, she caught herself and finally stood still again.

“Sandra, my friends and I require accommodations for the evening. And supper would be nice, if you can manage it.”

“For our dear first lady and her friends? Of course! I’ll whip up a fresh batch while you all get settled. How many rooms do you all need?”

...Oh. That was not a question any of them had considered until now. Mòrag and Zeke turned to the others. A lot changed since the last time they stayed at an inn as a group.

“Oi, chum, how many do ya think we need? One for us, one for you and Pyra, and then a guys’ room and a girls’ room—sound right?”

Rex turned beet red. “O-one for me and Pyra? Nah, we’re just, well, we weren’t planning on, I mean, with everyone else—”

“What Rex is  _ trying  _ to say is that I want to hang out with the girls tonight. For old times’ sake,” the Aegis interjected, rescuing her Driver from his own innocence. “Although I guess this time we’ll have Brighid and Pandy with us, too.”

Mòrag turned to her Blade. “Unless you’d rather have a room of your own, Brighid?”

Brighid hesitated, then shook her head. “I’ll stay with the girls.”

“Three, then.”

During their travels on Alrest, Mòrag usually dealt with the majority of the group’s finances—primarily because she was the best with the minute details of a budget, having handled the same on a military scale. Of course, they shared a group purse during that adventure, usually drawn from the rewards they received from grateful villagers they helped. Not long after Rex put her in charge of the group’s purse, Mòrag had learned that Tora was the most likely to swipe a coin or two from the shared wallet; his always was “one coin short for tasty sausages” which he needed to “survive.” And since Tora feared Mòrag more than anyone else in the group—perhaps with the exception of Brighid—Mòrag was the best choice to protect it.

As a result, Mòrag had always been the one to pay for their lodging. Today, however, with only three rooms, the price seemed small. In the past, they’d always booked four or five: one for Zeke and Pandoria, one for Mòrag and Brighid, then one each for the other guys and girls, and an extra one if some of their other Blades came along. She’d never stopped to consider how their marriage would affect details as simple as temporary living accommodations. Nothing wrong with that—just a simple reminder that everything was going to be different now.

“Three rooms it is!” the innkeeper said cheerfully. “Two group rooms, and then our honeymoon suite for our royal couple.”

“I really wish people would stop throwing that word around,” Zeke whispered as he took the keys from the woman.

“Let’s just be grateful that Kora didn’t come along for once,” Mòrag whispered back. 

Once the room keys were passed off to the most responsible occupant of each room—without question Brighid for the girls and Dromarch for the guys—the Aegis party dispersed to get settled and pass the time until dinner was served. Mòrag and Zeke quickly discovered that “honeymoon suite” simply implied that it was the only room that had a double bed (it was a very small inn in a very small town, after all). For some reason, that put them both a bit more at ease. Being doted on as newlyweds felt strange, as if everyone else had forgotten that it was an arranged marriage. They could do without the special treatment. 

Likewise, their friends seemed to have adapted to the changes at the drop of a hat. During their adventures across Alrest, there had always been the unspoken agreement that, when they sat down to eat, a space was to be left beside Brighid or Pandoria, giving the group’s adult Drivers room to sit beside their Blades. No one had ever requested the arrangement; it just happened. Today, however, was another matter. When Zeke and Mòrag rejoined the group for a long-awaited meal, both Brighid and Pandoria had been effectively surrounded by other companions. Two adjacent seats remained for them. 

“Sorry, lovebirds,” Nia teased when they sat down, “there aren’t enough tables for you to sit by yourselves. Try to keep the lovey-dovey stuff to a minimum while we’re eating.” 

_ Architect, this nonsense is never going to end.  _

To her relief, the teasing didn’t catch on as they dug into the simple meal the innkeeper had prepared. It was nothing fancy, although Ardainian cuisine had improved tremendously on Elysium. But sitting together around the table, eating, talking, laughing, not even bothering to plan their next move—it felt cozy and comfortable. Mòrag did not realize how much she had missed it. 

One by one, members of the group dispersed, leaving to prepare for bed or explore the town a bit before the last traces of sunlight vanished. The inn’s other occupants did the same. Before long, Brighid found herself alone in the common area, scrawling an entry in her journal while the innkeeper tidied up for the night. 

The fire Blade stifled a yawn. Her exhaustion was getting the better of her; ferrying messages back and forth was always part of her job. Today it had been especially stressful. But she did not fancy the idea of joining the other girls in the room just yet. They would probably be up gossiping for an hour or two, and she didn’t fancy joining them. Especially since the topic of her Driver’s new marriage would be a primary talking point in the discussion. How could she possibly join in without making the situation even more awkward? The girls had no idea why the subject of a honeymoon made Mòrag so uncomfortable—although, to her credit, Mòrag weathered the teasing with surprising grace. But Brighid couldn’t bring herself to prattle on about a romance that hadn’t quite blossomed yet. She couldn’t explain her silence, either. So here she was, avoiding conversation entirely. Plus, it was no secret that Mythra talked in her sleep and snored. Brighid didn’t know if she would be able to sleep through such a racket. And she dreaded trying.

Maybe she should have gotten a room to herself after all. 

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Brighid looked up from her journal. Pyra stood opposite her. Two cups of tea steamed in her hands. Before Brighid could respond to her request, the other fire Blade sat down, placing one cup on both sides of the table.

“Jenerossi?” Brighid asked. Even though she had a keen eye, her nose could never manage to keep track of all the different blends Pyra made. This one was the exception, since the Aegis brewed it almost daily.

“Yes. Rex and I picked some up in the market before we came back to the inn. I’ve also got peppermint, if you prefer.”

Brighid shook her head and sipped a bit of the warm, soothing drink. Perhaps it needed a little bit of sugar, but the brew itself was excellent.

“You know, Brighid, you’ve seemed out of sorts lately. Are you all right?”

Brighid clamped her eyes shut, fighting down the panic that threatened to show itself on her face. Was it that obvious? What did Pyra know? She couldn’t possibly tell her. And yet...Pyra was the Aegis. Her mind was insightful, constantly acquiring data from other Blades—data about feelings, reactions, relationships, behaviors, how the species evolved. Even if Pyra’s access to the Conduit was gone, her tendencies as the Master Blade had not. She never stopped observing. It was no wonder that Pyra had noticed she was not herself. But what could she possibly say in response? 

“...I’m still adjusting to the thought of Mòrag being married, of all things,” Brighid admitted at last. It wasn’t exactly a lie, either. “I suppose I’m struggling with it more than I anticipated. It’s hard not being at her side constantly. After all, when our group was traveling across Alrest, she and I always took a room together. Bunking with you and the other girls just doesn’t feel right. I mean no offense, of course.”

“None taken. But is that really it?” Pyra asked. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve been watching you handle this case for a few weeks now. And I have to admit, I’m a bit concerned. It almost seems like there’s something about this case that you don’t want Mòrag to find out. I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not being completely honest with her.”

The Aegis’s expression was unyielding but kind and full of concern. Brighid scanned the room, checking every door, window, and nearby table for anyone who might overhear.

“I’m simply trying to protect her. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Pyra frowned—not a look of anger, but rather a mix of pity and disappointment at the dismissive answer. “Look, I don’t know exactly what it is you’re hiding from her. I...I can only make an educated guess. But Mòrag...she’s your Driver. If you truly trust her, then I would advise you tell her everything. If you can’t do that even for her, you shouldn’t be her Blade at all,” she warned.

“If I tell her, she’ll—”

“If you care about her, it’s even more important,” the Aegis urged. “Brighid, I know what it’s like to be afraid of rejection. I  _ really _ do. But...if you don’t tell her now, you’re just storing up pain for later, not making it easier. Right?”

Brighid shook her head. “Why can’t I shake the feeling that we’ve had this conversation before?”

“Because we have. It’s almost exactly what you said when you urged me to tell Rex the truth. I never forgot those words. But Brighid, why haven’t you followed your own advice?”

“In truth, I told you that because I wanted you to avoid my mistakes,” Brighid admitted. “Hiding something from your Driver can come back to haunt you. I didn’t want you to go through that pain.”

“If it hurts so much, why don’t you come clean? Surely secrecy can’t make it any better.”

“I’ve let the truth go unsaid for far too long. I’ve stored up a lot of pain. Too much. I-if I told her now, she would never forgive me.”

“It can’t be that bad. This is Mòrag we’re talking about. You two are inseparable. I’m sure she’ll understand. You should tell her.”

“...All I want is for her to be happy,” Brighid sighed.

“Every Blade feels that way for their Driver.”

“Mòrag hasn’t had a very happy life, Pyra. There are aspects of her past that still haunt her to this day. With Zeke, though...I think she could find a small sliver of happiness with him, or at least contentment. But not until she moves on from the past.”

“And this information you’re keeping from her, you think it would keep her from moving on?”

The Jewel of Mor Ardain nodded. The internal debate had kept her up countless times over the past few weeks. And when she did manage to sleep, she had nightmares of her own. In them, Mòrag had been screaming, tortured by the night terrors of her youth. Each time, Brighid’s dream self had tried everything to wake her, to comfort her as she always did. But her efforts to rouse her Driver, an adult crying in a child’s voice, always ended with Mòrag plummeting deeper into the terror. Brighid herself would wake up in a cold sweat. But the cries still echoed in her mind for hours afterwards. If she told Mòrag, would those bad dreams return? 

Or could Zeke shelter her from the nightmares? In the days leading up to the wedding, Brighid had seen little glimpses of  _ something  _ growing between them. Whether it was the first little drops of genuine affection or just a deep platonic regard for each other, Brighid wasn’t sure. But either way, Mòrag was learning to trust the partner that politics forced her to take. The fact that she told Zeke her story was proof of that. And then there were the kisses: sweet, mostly innocuous gestures to the common observer, but to Brighid, they spoke volumes. Each one gave her hope that her Driver might finally be healing from the wounds that bastard had inflicted.

But only because she believed that the man responsible was dead. On one hand, it felt wrong to let the truth rip open those old wounds. But on the other, Brighid hated herself for letting her Driver heal under false pretense.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Brighid,” Pyra continued. “But consider something: would you rather she hear the truth from you or find out on her own? Because this journey is going to end with us toppling the Aramach. And in the process, whatever truth you’re hiding is probably going to come out. No matter how ugly or hurtful that truth is, it would be a hundred times worse for her to learn it inside their fortress.”

_ Or I’ll just have to kill him before she has a chance to find out. _

“...I know. I-I’ll give it some thought,” Brighid said at last. Not that she hadn’t already agonized over it. 

“Good,” Pyra replied, apparently satisfied with that small concession. “And if it helps at all, I’d be glad to go with you when you tell her. For moral support.”

“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

_ Every time the dragon beat its wings, the air itself seemed to implode. Blood trickled out of one ear; simply staying upright was a challenge. Each gust of wind threatened to throw her to the ground. Not to mention the fact that the flames on her swords just wouldn’t stay lit. How was she supposed to fight fire with fire? And why wasn’t anyone coming to help? There were people shouting all around her, urging her to “Kill the beast! Slay the traitor!” But each time the dragon knocked her down, they simply booed. _

_ She was in a huge arena, she realized. Only instead of a coliseum, the seats were the benches of Senators, as if this were an Imperial trial. They were the jury, while she herself and the dragon were the accused and the defendant. But it was the arena that would determine which adversary was innocent and which would be damned. Not innocent until proven guilty; both condemned until one emerged victorious. _

_ “Very well. A trial by fire,” she grimaced, pulling herself back to her feet. “Bring on the flame!”  _

_ It was a trial she had to face alone. Brighid’s power lingered here with her, pulsing through her weapons and her chest. But physically, her Blade was absent. She had no one guard her back; she would have to summon her own ether shields. And yet, she didn’t need them—not for the fire, anyway. Each time the dragon belched a fiery stream, the flames enveloped her, lapping at her clothes and threatening to reveal the truth about her scarred frame. But nothing burned away. The tongues did not hurt her. She was a flame herself, and the heat only served to fan her fury.  _

_ She fought back, brandishing her whips whenever she could not physically close the distance between herself and her opponent. They glanced off the dragon’s hide, doing less damage than a mosquito could. Around her, the Senate cried angrily, throwing their golden crests at her like stones. Why couldn’t she overcome this monster? What good was a Special Inquisitor who couldn’t take down a traitor? _

_ “I’m not a failure!” she screamed.  _

_ The flames were all around her now, spewing from her eyes, her mouth, her nose. Gravity seemed to lose its power as she surged upward, almost transforming into a dragon herself. She grappled with her opponent, tearing at his wings. She would rip out his heart if she had to. Whatever it took to expose him.  _

_ One crack of her whip, then another. A deep slice at the base of the left wing. There was a sickening sound as the bones and sinews cracked and tore—her weapon struck home. Suddenly they were careening back to the earth. The dragon failed to right himself and crashed at the base of the arena. His other wing shattered in the impact of the fall.  _

_ A grounded opponent she could handle. The crowd seemed to recognize this, their cries silencing to take in every tense little moment of the Flamebringer’s victory.  _

_ She moved to strike the final blow. But when she got close, the felled dragon clenched her between its front claws and tossed her aside as hard as it could. Both Driver and dragon hesitated then, gasping for air and struggling to get upright again. Mòrag tried to take a deep breath. Something stabbed at her side with each inhale. Damn. Broken ribs. One more attack like that and the beast would squash her like an insect. _

_ They circled each other. Waited for the other to make a move. Limped as the gravity of their injuries sunk in.  _

_ And then the dragon  _ **_spoke._ ** _ “Give the Emperor my regards, little princess. I’ve already eaten him. And now you can join him in my belly!” _

_ The threat rekindled the flames inside her, and she pounced. Her swords danced of their own accord, slashing at his thick hide. The huge beast had no time to dodge as she hacked away at his scaly neck. Each cut went deeper and deeper until the dragon’s head thudded against the arena floor with a serpentine hiss. _

_ The crowd erupted at the victory...but when they got a better look at the dragon’s body, the cheers fell away.  _

_ There was still a head on the beast. Its bloodied neck no longer held a dragon’s face. Now it was a man’s. The face grinned, and his household crest gleamed on its forehead, tattooed there in blood.  _

_ She bit back both vomit and curses. Her gut reaction was to chop off that head, too. But she stopped short. She knew that face.  _

Mòrag jerked awake, practically slapping Zeke in her effort to sit up. Her breath wouldn’t calm down. This was not a nightmare she ever had before. 

She flipped on the bedside lamp, hoping that dispelling the shadows would help calm her down. But the dragon-man’s face still lingered fresh in her memory. And even in the dim light, she recognized it. The realization struck her like a punch in the gut.

“You okay?” Zeke asked groggily. “Bad dream?”

She scrambled out of bed. The metal fragment. She needed to look at it just once more to be sure her subconscious mind had not recalled its details incorrectly. If her hunch was right...The piece was cold between her fingers. Even though the ink stamping the crest against the metal was black pigment, it glowed back up at her like a hot brand. 

For once, a nightmare had helped her. She shed her pajamas and started yanking on pieces of her uniform. It was time to act.

“Mòrag, what are you doing? It’s not even dawn yet. Come back to bed,” Zeke groaned. 

“I can’t sleep. Not now. Zeke, I remembered which house that crest belongs to!” she said, fighting to keep her volume low in her anxious excitement. “Get up. We have to get back to the capitol right away.”

“What?” The shock of her statement dispelled some of the sleep from his eyes.

“Only one house in the Empire has a dragon on that section of the Imperial shield. The house that delivered the explosives to the prison, the traitor’s crest: it’s from the Birall family.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, I LOVE writing dreams. So fun and creepy. 
> 
> And finally! More than 10 chapters after first referencing the Ardainian mole, we finally get back to one of the bad guys. A much-needed break in the case--phew!
> 
> Anyway, have a great weekend/week/whatever time it is that you end up reading this. 'Til next time.


	16. Thicker Than Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this chapter a fluff sandwich: plot, fluff, plot. It’s a part of a balanced diet. ;)

“Slow down— _ who  _ did you say it is?” Zeke asked. 

Mòrag’s words were hurried, a twisted sort of excitement that he almost didn’t recognize. “The Birall family. You know, Senator Birall, head of the Gardic party?”

“But he seems really supportive of the throne. Not the traitor type. Why would he be helping the Aramach?”

“I don’t know. But believe me, I’m going to find out.”

By the time Zeke’s feet hit the floor, Mòrag was already pulling on her boots. There would be no convincing her to go back to sleep and wait until morning. Even on their journeys, when nothing was on the agenda except a long day of traveling, Mòrag had been the most immune to pleadings for “five more minutes” when she was on wake-up duty. She certainly wouldn’t heed them now—not with the possibility of catching the traitor at last.

“I’ll go drag the guys out of bed. You get the girls.”

_ At least I don’t have to wake the demonic sleeper Mythra,  _ he thought bitterly. 

Most of the group complained that they were dragged out of bed so dreadfully early (Brighid and Dromarch were the only ones who kept their grumblings to themselves). But when Rex heard that they were about to go arrest one of the criminals behind the violence, he visibly brightened. And his relentless positivity was catchy; any bad attitudes that couldn’t be cured by coffee were greatly improved by Rex’s eagerness.

Mòrag and Brighid kept themselves occupied for the entire journey back to Alba Cavanich—learning Birall’s daily agenda, arranging for a team of elite soldiers to meet them on the ground, and alerting the Emperor to the circumstances at hand. By the time they landed, the plan was set; all the arrangements were made. Senator Birall was in the middle of the Senate’s official proceedings. He would be there all afternoon. And they would capture him before he had a chance to flee.

The Inquisitor strode from the Imperial docks to the Senate building, eyes fixed in a singular focus. Her friends trailed behind her, as did the soldiers she requested, creating a group that was equally imposing and ridiculous. They drew stares as they traipsed through the lobby.

“Lady Mòrag,” Brighid hissed, “please slow down and think about this for a minute. Are you sure you want to arrest him  _ now?  _ You’ll create uproar. The entire Senate will know.”

“Birall did not spare us any uproar when he helped level Phriosune, correct? I will not afford him the courtesy of silent justice.”

“But are you absolutely sure about the crest? That crate is the only evidence we have to go on right now. If it turns out that you’re wrong, if you arrest an innocent man in front of the entire Senate, we’ll have a complete scandal on our hands.”

“My instincts are rarely wrong, Brighid. And I’m well within my rights to detain him. Trust me on this one.”

“As you wish.”

“Uproar” was putting it mildly. To interrupt official procedures was always regarded as a gross breach of etiquette. Granted, the Special Inquisitor could do as she pleased, but the interruption still caused a stir (as did Tora and Poppi, who entered the room and stopped short to stare at the building’s architecture). Senator Byrne, who’d been in the middle of presenting a bill, stammered, unable to overpower the confused murmur that rolled through the Senate building. 

“Special Inquisitor Mòrag,” Byrne said, finally gathering his wits. “I trust your Grace has adequate cause for this untimely interruption?”

“Perhaps you’d like to ask that question of Senator Birall.” 

Hundreds of eyes found their way to the head of the Gardic party. The man stood. If the sudden spotlight phased him, he hid it well.

“What exactly are you implying, my lady?” he asked, his tone smug.

“Would you care to explain the metal crate we found in the remains of Phriosune prison, or shall I? I’m confident our esteemed Senate would like to know why your family crest was found on the crate that blew up the facility, Birall.”

The Senators gasped at both the accusation and the disrespect displayed; to drop his title and use only his family name was a huge insult to his honor. A commoner would likely be flogged for such behavior. More whispers echoed through the hall. Birall kept silent.

“Do you deny it?”

“I choose to neither confirm nor deny these allegations.”

The room interpreted his response as a method of self-defense; to the Senators, it appeared that Birall did not want to say anything incriminating in public. So their questioning glances transformed into looks of horror, especially those of his own party. 

“Well then, Eoghan Birall, by authority of his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Niall, you are hereby under arrest for high treason, aiding and abetting over six hundred fugitives, obstruction of justice, fraud, embezzlement, and—well, it seems rather superfluous to go on, don’t you think? As we are in public, I recommend you come quietly. But if you want to do this the messy way, I’d gladly oblige.”

“Sheesh, Mòrag’s pissed off,” Nia whispered. 

Mòrag had half expected him to put up a fight, but the aghast Senators from his own party took away that possibility, practically executing the arrest for her. They dragged him from his seat and surrendered him to the guards. Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief. It shocked her that the Senate had not demanded proof of her allegations. In truth, she had precious little: enough to arrest for treason and the aiding and abetting charges. But she still lacked concrete evidence for the others. Brighid had been right to question her quick arrest. Only her intuition convinced her that the man behind the explosion was also responsible for outfitting the Aramach, telling them of her whereabouts when searching for Cor, and the rest of this mess. So for the Senate to believe her charges so readily...maybe the Senate’s support for the crown didn’t run quite as thin as she thought. 

Unsurprisingly, the hours that followed were hectic. Imprisoning the disgraced Senator was the easy part. But then came the matters of confiscating his personal effects, his offices, even his household; everything he owned would be turned over with a fine-tooth comb in the days that followed. And the Gardic party had to scramble to appoint a new head Senator, which required the Emperor’s confirmation. Official statements, though ambiguous, had to be made to the press. And then there was the inevitable paperwork for every official action taken. 

A preliminary interrogation of the Senator occurred. True to his vow to keep silent, Birall said nothing. That only deepened Mòrag’s confidence that he was guilty. An innocent man, when faced with an accusation as grave as treason, would be scrambling to defend himself. But he kept his lips as tight as a steel trap. For a man so accustomed to verbose rhetoric, silence was damning. Rather than pressing him with intense interrogation from the outset, Mòrag opted to leave to stew in a jail cell for a bit. She was in no emotional state to question him now, and maybe a few days deprived of the comforts of his station would soften him up.

To say that Mòrag fixated on the day’s remaining tasks was an understatement. Brighid both admired and detested her Driver’s ability to laser-focus. Usually, the talent served her well in such a demanding position. But on days like today, when even the common observer could tell that she needed to get some rest, Mòrag persisted, victim to her own dutiful tunnel vision. 

“I think you’ve accomplished enough for one day,” Brighid pointed out. “The risk of Birall escaping is over. The urgent part is past.”

“I’m setting up an interrogation strategy. We have to find out what he knows. He could help us find the Aramach,” Mòrag said dismissively.

“I’m putting my foot down, Mòrag. You’ve been working nonstop for days. Go take a break.” Brighid insisted. 

“I can handle three stressful days in a row. I don’t need a break.”

“It’s only been three stressful days since the wedding, but you had plenty of busy days leading up to it. You’re going to run yourself into a complete breakdown if you keep this up.”

“I don’t—”

“Take a break  _ now _ . A walk in the palace gardens, perhaps? Do it, or I’ll set fire to your desk.”

The threat itself wasn’t real, but Mòrag could tell the sentiment behind them was. Brighid almost always deferred to her decisions. But when it came to easing the stress her work caused—observing “self-care,” Brighid called it—the Blade could be quite insistent. Almost motherly.

“Fine. I’ll walk a single lap through the gardens. But  _ only  _ because I don’t have time to rebuild my office.”

Brighid gave an approving huff and pried a case file from her fingers. “And please try to think about something besides work while you’re gone. It defeats the purpose.”

Mòrag simply shook her head and left as ordered. In truth, it did feel good to take a break, physically and mentally. Since her birthday gala, she’d had had only one day off. Under the same circumstances, she would have ordered any of her own soldiers to take at least a day of obligatory leave; military protocol mandated no more than twelve consecutive on-duty days. That was not a protocol she adhered to personally, especially lately. Brighid often scolded her for it, claiming that an overworked Inquisitor was less effective than a well-rested one. Deep down, Mòrag knew she was right. But she could never admit that to her Blade. 

Her mind wandered as she walked, so when her feet came to a stop of their own accord, she had to look around to get her bearings. The bench across from the patch she and Zeke were “tending.” Of course this was where her subconscious mind had brought her.

She took a seat, mindful of her posture even though the groundskeepers had already packed up for the day. Even to her untrained eye, the patch looked almost pitiful, surrounded by the palace’s ornate, bursting ones. She and Zeke had replanted new dawn hydrangea and moon flower plants after the weedkiller incident. Now there were the two blooming plants flanked by flowerless ones. It looked like an unfinished patchwork quilt. But at least there were a few flowers now—pure white blossoms mingling with yellow ones, like clouds mingling with a sunrise—flowers from seeds they planted together. Somehow, that felt like progress. 

_ Architect, I’m a married woman. _

It was a thought she had more than once in the last forty-eight hours—particularly after waking up beside him—but now the full weight of it struck her. It all happened so fast. Everything happened fast. Never in a million years would she have predicted that she’d end up married to the Tantalese prince, of all people. Her sixteen-year-old self would have laughed at the thought that the mysterious “brigand” caught trespassing on palace grounds over ten years ago would end up as her husband. She probably would have laughed at the thought even just two years ago, when she first encountered him at the Leftherian docks. Initially she was impressed by the sheer speed of his bladework, only for him to go careening off the cliff like a clumsy oaf. Not exactly the first impression she would have liked. And yet here she was, wed to him. And far less perturbed by it than she expected to be.

“You were right. Moon flowers and dawn hydrangeas do look nice together.”

Zeke, right on cue, as if he knew she was thinking about him.

“There’s still a lot of work to do with it, though. If only we had the time,” she mused.

He took a seat beside her, much like she had done on the eve of their wedding. If they kept finding their way back to this spot, the servants would put a plaque on the bench and mark it “reserved for the royal couple.” They had a blasted tendency to cordon off anything she or Niall took a particular interest in.

“Did you follow me here?” 

“Not this time,” Zeke admitted. “I usually take a walk down here each night.”

“Ah, yes. You did mention you love flowers. I should have guessed as much,” Mòrag replied, wondering if Brighid knew that Zeke came down here regularly. Surely the suggestion to take a walk in the gardens wasn’t a coincidence.

“Stressed?”

“Is it that obvious?” she asked. To her own surprise, a laugh lingered in the question.

He nodded. “We got him. He can’t feed them information anymore. That’s huge. And we’ll get the answers we need. I know it. So relax. Stressing about it isn’t going to make him more likely to talk.”

For a while, silence lingered between them. Then, from somewhere within the palace, soft strains of music floated past—a traditional Ardainian waltz played by a fine, full symphony.

“What’s with the music?” Zeke asked.

“That’ll be the royal orchestra. They’re rehearsing for Hugo’s Day, I think.”

“Hugo’s Day? What’s that, like a holiday or something?”

“There’s usually a state dinner to celebrate. Nothing so elaborate as the gala or our wedding, but a party all the same.”

“Please don’t tell me you guys have a holiday for every single emperor.”

“Of course not. Emperor Hugo was special,” she explained, mindlessly spinning her ring in circles on her finger. “He was our greatest war hero and a martyr. So each year on the anniversary of his death, we honor his sacrifice.”

“On the day he died? Kinda morbid.”

“Your entire country might not exist without his bravery, so don’t criticize too much.”

“Touché. But seriously, holding a fancy state dinner at a time like this? You’re not going, right?”

“On the contrary. It’s a military holiday. And as the figurehead of our armed forces, I’m required to attend—peace or war. In the past, I always accompanied Niall at the event. But since you and I will be attending together, he’ll have to find himself another escort.”

Zeke sighed, wondering what on earth would go through a girl’s head when an  _ Emperor  _ requested her company at a state dinner. Talk about pressure. But he also found a strange sense of comfort knowing that for this party, Mòrag wouldn’t have “suitors.” Come to think of it, she probably preferred it that way, too. 

“...Isn’t ‘Hugo’ Niall’s middle name?” He blurted, only to remember that the question might dredge up some unpleasant memories.

“His first name is an Ardanach family name, but they let me choose his middle one,” she admitted quietly. “Back when I was still crown princess, I loved the histories of Hugo most of all. He was the sort of ruler I aspired to be. So when Niall was born, it just stuck.” 

Zeke tried to mask his relief that the question hadn’t really saddened her. He stood up abruptly, extending his hand. She looked at him quizzically. 

“Can’t let this perfectly good dancing music go to waste now, can we?”

“You want to dance? Now?”

“Why not? Come on. We put a traitor behind bars today. That alone is worth celebrating, right?”

She shook her head but smiled and took his hand. It was nothing like their first dance at the gala, with friends betting in the background while they tried to ignore the awkwardness of a fresh, forced proposal. That dance had been tense, guarded, and stiff, only gradually shifting into the familiarity that sparked rumors and newspaper articles about a one-night stand between them. How ironic and petty that all seemed now. Tonight, however, with no one watching and no secrets left for either of them to guard, their dance was instantly at ease. Each step, each sway, every turn flowed as if carefully rehearsed. When the music peaked and he swung her into another dip, her hat clattered to the ground. But she didn’t care. Now there was no reason to hide behind its brim.

The music faded, returning a moment later in a slower, softer tune. Without prompting, Mòrag let her head fall to his shoulder. Zeke pulled her close. Somehow, he liked this impromptu dance better than all the others. As pretty as she’d looked at the gala and the wedding, that wasn’t her. The dresses and makeup were just a mask. Her navy military garb didn’t necessarily fit the mood, but dressed like this, she was herself—no false fronts. The Mòrag in his arms now, the Special Inquisitor, she wasn’t pretending anymore. And that authenticity made the fabric of her uniform feel nicer than her bare skin at the parties.

Their dance lost its rhythm, devolving into a gentle sway until they fell still. How long they lingered there in that motionless hug, neither knew. 

“...May I kiss you?” Zeke whispered. 

She looked up at him as though it was a silly question. “You don’t have to ask for permission.”

“I just don’t want to upset you. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

“I meant what I said about the kisses. They’re fine. They’re real.”

“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”

She brushed his skin with a few gentle kisses on his cheek and chin before finding his mouth, lingering there. “Does that answer your question?”

He hummed in response, still not releasing her from his arms. She hesitated and searched his gaze. Normally, it was so easy to tell what he was thinking; he practically screamed it with dramatic gestures and facial expressions. Tantalese royalty was definitely permitted more freedom with their emotions than Mor Ardain’s. But now, she couldn’t read him. She found herself wishing she could remove his eyepatch to see if looking at both eyes would help her understand his thoughts. But no. Zeke was sensitive about very little. His eyepatch made the short list of things he didn’t really discuss—assuming the “eye of shining justice” was another one of his theatrics. Knowing him, it was. No one actually had power lurking in his eye, but for Zeke, it was a passable explanation. Come to think of it, she’d never seen him without the patch. Was that really because he lacked a second contact lens? Surely he could afford one now. Curiosity struck her, and for a moment, she considered pulling at the string. It would be so easy…

_ If he wanted to show you, he would. So what if he keeps a secret from you about his eye? You of all people can’t criticize him for that. It’s not your place. _

“What’s wrong?” she asked at last, moving her hands a bit further away from his neck, where the temptation to pull away the patch wasn’t quite as strong.

“Just thinking. About Hugo.”

“What about him?”

“The stories all say that he always wanted to put himself on the line for his people. And he did. He sacrificed himself for the good of his friends and countrymen. And that’s got me thinking...Mòrag, would you do the same thing? If your death could somehow save your country, would you die?”

What an odd question; morbidity was so unlike him—at least, not genuine morbidity. He would joke about it, sure, but his tone betrayed the serious nature behind the current question.

“I think you know the answer to that. Any soldier would sacrifice himself for his homeland. Myself most of all.”

“But what if someone didn’t want you to? What if someone wanted you to survive instead?”

“Niall? He knows that duty comes before family. I’m his shield. And the needs of many cannot be outweighed by the wants of one.”

Zeke frowned. “Not what I meant, but yeah. Figured you’d say that.”

Mòrag paused. What else could he have meant? “Would you not do the same for Tantal?”

“A dead leader isn’t much good to anyone. So I’d sure as hell try to find another way first.”

“That’s a bit idealistic, don’t you think?”

“Maybe Rex has rubbed off on me after all. I certainly hope it never comes to that. For either of us.”

“It shouldn’t,” she said, surprised by her own confidence. “But to keep that from happening, I should get back to work.”

And “back to work” became their default setting in the days that followed. Most of it was grim work: wheedling answers out of Birall. Any hopes that the traitorous Senator would reveal his agenda quickly were dashed. Over the years, Birall entrenched himself deeply in a web of deceit—and detangling that web demanded more patience than Mòrag possessed. He endured questioning, unfazed. Even Brighid’s more intense interrogations did little to rattle him.

Mòrag couldn’t shake the feeling that cracking Birall was their only hope at toppling the Aramach. All of her other leads, when she left the palace to chase them, unturned dead ends. Rex had located their first base not far from the demilitarized zone. But since then, the Aramach had utilized their pirated airships and flown away. So now the clues he fought so hard to find were useless. Her staff, too, spent countless hours sifting through Birall’s records: transaction histories, official and informal correspondences, bills, memorandums, and more. It was a long list. But the Senator hid his tracks well. If there were any clues in his written documents, they were not easily found. 

The days dragged on into weeks, and still, Birall said nothing. The only mercy was the fact that the Aramach went all but silent during his captivity. Mòrag hoped that was a good sign—maybe they were laying low because their man on the inside had been compromised. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were plotting something. 

Meanwhile, she found herself grateful that there was always a delay between a declaration of war and the actual fighting. Even though Uraya said its vanguard was advancing on the Ardainian border, it took more than two weeks for them to actually arrive and begin an assault. The hassle of military bureaucracies came in handy for once. Since then, the Ardainian defensive perimeter had kept the Urayan forces at bay. There were, inevitably, casualties, but the conflict remained at the border. It was a good thing, too; Niall had ordered almost every single military resource to the front in an attempt to keep it that way. There weren’t many reserve forces left to pick up the slack. 

“Mòrag, let me take a crack at this arsehole,” Zeke suggested one morning when the questioning remained ineffective. “Maybe I can get him to talk.”

She scoffed. “I thought you hated the idea of torturing a prisoner. Please don’t feel the need to break your convictions on my account.”

“I do hate it, although I understand why it’s necessary. But maybe a different approach will rattle him.”

Despite her protests, Zeke could tell that she was considering his suggestion. Even though she, her Blade, and a team of soldiers all took turns doing the interrogation and torturing, it was clear that the emotional and physical exertion of doing the “dirty work” was wearing on her. He had watched some of the interrogations, mostly out of curiosity. Some of the tactics they unleashed made him sick to his stomach. But Birall’s screams remained wordless. Unless the Ardainians unleashed some of their truly terrifying methods—he heard some of the soldiers muttering about them—Birall would remain uncooperative. It seemed that it was a line of torture even Mòrag was reluctant to cross.

“What do you intend to do?” she asked at last.

“He’s a powerful man, right? He likes to feel like he’s in control, like he’s the mastermind behind all the details. Maybe playing towards his ego might loosen him up a bit.”

She raised an eyebrow, then sighed. “Fine. I doubt it’ll work, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything.”

“Just watch from the observation room, okay? Let me go in there alone with him.” 

“Why?”

“I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, but some of the men in power in your country are chauvinistic bastards,” Zeke explained, hoping she wouldn’t smack him for insulting Mor Ardain. But she nodded, waiting for him to proceed. “Birall might be respectful and egalitarian on the outside, but deep down, he might think he’s superior to you. Hell, he probably thinks he’s superior to everyone. So I’ll have a ‘man-to-man’ chat with him. It’s worth a shot, right?”

“Have it your way.”

Zeke sauntered into the interrogation room, doing his best to appear the exact opposite of Mòrag: relaxed, relatively amiable, and not out for blood. He flipped on the lights—the Ardainians typically kept them dim—and grabbed a glass of water. He set it in front of the Senator.

Birall sneered. “No thanks. You’ve probably laced it with some sort of sedative to get me to talk.”

Zeke laughed and took a swig to prove his suspicions wrong. He hadn’t expected the man to speak first. Maybe that was a good sign. “Nah, chum. You just look like you could jolly use it. Frankly you could use something stronger, but this is a start, eh?”

It was the truth—the Senator looked like a shadow of his former self. His eyes were dull, his hair thinned with patches missing. Most of his skin was intact, but it was pale and blotchy, probably the result of enduring countless wounds only to have them healed and inflicted over and over again. If not for the way Birall glared daggers at him, Zeke would have thought he looked like a man on his deathbed. 

Birall drained the glass, eyes never leaving his new interrogator. Zeke took that opportunity to sit down at the table across from him. He propped both legs up against and leaned back with his arms folded behind his head. Hopefully he looked completely at ease, totally informal. For this hunch to work, he needed Birall to believe he was the superior one in the room.

“Can’t promise anything more than that,” Zeke said cheerfully.

“You can drop your little friendly act,  _ prince,”  _ Birall hissed the word, “and get on with it. As you probably know by now, this is a waste of time. I won’t say anything.”

“Look man, I’m just here to clear the air. You know, make sure you’re not mad at me.”

The prisoner raised a questioning brow. “Your meaning?”

“Come on, chum. It’s no secret that you were on the shortlist of potentials for Mòrag’s husband. If I hadn’t showed up, it probably would have been your wedding. And the princess’s spouse? Man, a chum like that has an easy road to the throne. I stole that out from under you. It’d be only natural to hate me for that. Some might even try to bump me off.”

“The rumors are true. You really do speak like a commoner.”

“Hah! You sound like my old man. No hard feelings, then?”

“None at all.”

Typical Ardainian—Birall’s face was impassive, impossible to read. His thoughts hid behind the same emotional armor Mòrag, Niall, and other politicians here seemed to wear. This was going to be harder than he thought. Maybe a bit of flattery?

“Good. I would have expected you to be mad. After all, my marrying Mòrag derailed your plan. And it was a really good one. One you’d been working on for months.”

“And what plan would that be?”

There it was—Birall nibbled at the bait he’d thrown out. 

“Oh, you know, this whole deal where you’re trying to get the Ardanachs off the throne. Your bill to oust the Emperor with a no-confidence vote, being able to put in your own replacement if there was no heir, it was brilliant. Because I think you predicted that the crown would respond by trying to get Mòrag to have an heir. You knew that she’d be looking for a husband, and you’d make a great choice. That made the bill a win-win for you. Either way, you had an in to the throne of Mor Ardain. If the vote of no confidence passed, you could recommend yourself as a replacement. Or you could just marry Mòrag and worm your way in through the royal family. Quite brilliant, really. Until I showed up and messed up your plans.”

“Perhaps there are a few hard feelings, then.”

Not a direct confession, or anything they didn’t already know, but he was talking. More than he had in weeks.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Zeke added, “You’re much more patient than I am. You’ve been playing a very long game, keeping your cards close to your chest. I would have given myself away a long time ago. And not only have you been playing a long game, but you’ve had multiple strategies the entire time: the Senate’s bill, the arranged marriage, helping the Aramach. Three different ways of overthrowing the Ardanach dynasty. Absolutely brilliant.”

Birall didn’t respond, but one corner of his mouth turned upwards, like the phantasm of a smile. It disappeared quickly, but not before Zeke caught the chink in his facial armor. Mòrag probably saw it over the cameras, too. 

“You’re clearly one of the most brilliant men in all of Mor Ardain,” Zeke continued. The false flattery felt bitter on his tongue. “Which is why I don’t get it.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t understand how someone as wise and savvy as yourself could even get caught. I mean, Mòrag’s been trying to track you down for weeks. But you kept under the radar, avoiding her detection. And believe me, she’s a hard woman to hide things from. So it doesn’t make sense that you would suddenly be sloppy enough to send explosives in a crate with your crest on it, right where we could find it. Bad form, really.”

“I made precise calculations to ensure that the explosion would destroy every trace of evidence! Not even I could have predicted that one of the bombs was a dud!”

Bingo. The arrogant traitor could resist intense physical torture, but an insult to his intelligence threw him off completely. Zeke grinned as Birall bit his lip, realizing he’d slipped up and confessed. 

Mòrag entered from the adjoining room, triumph gleaming in her eyes. Now, with some form of oral confession on record, they had Birall cornered. 

“Start talking,” she demanded, not sitting down. “The courts will convict you of treason for sure now. There’s only one way you can avoid a one-way trip to the cemetery, Birall. And that’s if you tell us everything you know. What are the Aramach planning?”

“You don’t stand a chance of beating him, Ladair. They’re going to crush the Ardanach household for good, with or without me. So if I die, it won’t be in vain. Why, then, should I tell you anything?”

Zeke leaned forward with both elbows on the table. Not the most threatening pose for most people, but somehow, when he did it, the effect was imposing. 

“You’re going to tell us where the Aramach are simply because you can’t resist,” he replied. “After all, what’s the risk? You’re clearly very confident that your beloved Aramach can pummel us. If you told us where they are, you’d be sending us right into whatever trap they’ve set.”

“Are you really so keen to rush to your deaths?” Birall retorted, a gleam creeping back into his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“Me, I’m not so scared of dying. I’d just be giving the ether stream a nice boost of energy. But I do prefer to face my impending doom head on. So tell us what you know. Then we can trot along to the Aramach’s hideout, meet what you say is our inevitable doom, and you’ll get to enjoy the show before they hang you for treason.”

“...Crá Gleann,” Birall croaked. “It’s a valley along the borders of Mor Ardain and Tantal. I think you’ll love the scenery.”

Mòrag frowned. She’d heard whispers of the place but never visited it personally. And if Birall had given up the location so easily, she could only wonder what perils waited there. Maybe it was a trap. But it was one they had to spring. What other choice did they have?

“...Never in my wildest dreams would I have predicted that you would be a turncoat, Birall. You’ve always seemed so supportive of the throne,” Mòrag whispered. Over the past weeks, she hoped that this was all some kind of misunderstanding—that he’d been framed, that she hadn’t let a traitor run unchecked in their palace, so close to Niall. But now that he’d unintentionally admitted it, that hope was gone, replaced by a resigned disappointment in her own inability to recognize his treachery.

“I’m a good actor. Runs in the family.”

“So why do this? Why do you want the Ardanach line destroyed?”

“Why for revenge, of course. Your house and your filthy jewel ruined my brother’s life. And I’m helping repay that debt in kind.”

“But you don’t have a brother. You’re the only son of the Von Birall family.”

The traitor smirked, no longer hiding his emotions beneath his politician’s mask. “You of all people should know that not all births are correctly documented, Lady Mòrag.”

A tiny speck of terror flashed in her eyes when the implications of his statement sank in. It was barely visible, quickly buried underneath her impassive working mask, but Zeke saw it.

“This so-called brother of yours. Who is he?”

Birall shook his head. “He wants to enjoy his anonymity for a while longer. If you’re so intent on knowing, go to Crá Gleann yourself. Because I’ve said all I’m going to say.”

Mòrag simply turned on her heel and left the room, ordering the guards on duty to lock the man away until his trial. It would not be long; due to the gravity of his crime, his day in court would come quickly. Zeke got up and followed after her as she stalked through the halls. He kept silent until they were in the privacy of her office again. Brighid was there, handling some of the Inquisitor’s busywork. But the Blade took one look at her Driver’s face and locked the office door behind them.

In plain, businesslike words, Mòrag explained the information they’d gotten from Birall. Once she had, she turned to gaze out the window, hands clasped behind her. 

“Thank you for your help, Zeke. How did you know that would work, if I may ask?”

Zeke shrugged. “I was raised by an arrogant man who liked to keep secrets. That sort can rarely stand it when someone accuses them of messing up. So I took a gamble. Glad it paid off. Now Mòrag, what did he mean when he said that your family ruined his brother’s life?”

She exhaled heavily. “I have no clue who his brother is, so it’s too vague of a statement to help. Because quite frankly, you could say that I’ve ruined a lot of lives over the years.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not so naive as to think that everyone adores me. Not the families of the rebel soldiers I’ve cut down. Not the men I’ve demoted or dismissed from the military. Not the criminals I’ve put behind bars. From the perspectives of those people, I’ve ruined many lives. I don’t regret it, of course. But ‘a brother whose life I ruined’ could mean anyone.”

“That’s not the real problem, though,” Brighid added. Her Driver nodded in response. “If Birall knew or even suspected the truth about the Emperor, if he somehow let that information get out, then Uraya’s war won’t be our only conflict.”

“It can’t be a coincidence, can it? But who could have possibly leaked that information?” Mòrag wondered aloud. “Brighid, track down the staff members who were living at the manor fourteen years ago. Amelia is here as my personal physician, but I want all the others accounted for and brought here. Immediately.”

“Of course, Lady Mòrag.” 

“And then what?” Zeke asked.

“We visit this Crá Gleann and ferret out Birall’s so-called brother. And then I live up to my nickname.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished mapping out the remaining plot for this fic! Woohoo! And let me tell you, folks, we are in for quite the ride. I may have bitten off more than I can chew (it's certainly going to be longer than I expected), but we’ll see how it goes. 
> 
> I’m treating this as my project for NaNoWriMo (this fic hits novel length--arguably more--so why not?), so hopefully this month I’ll be able to knock out a good chunk of it. I’ve averaged 20-25k words per month so far, and NaNo requires 50k...ambitious goal, but we’ll see how it goes! If I make the goal, you guys might benefit from more frequent updates. And if not, oh well. :)


	17. Crá Gleann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morag is very confused. Zeke is only slightly less confused. But to everyone else, it’s obvious. And meanwhile, they have a job to do. A dangerous one.
> 
> It’s just another average week, really.
> 
> Faster update than usual because it's 4 days into NaNoWriMo (national novel writing month), and I'm shockingly ahead of schedule. Yay me.

Getting Rex and the others to join them on yet another expedition took very little convincing. In truth, it took more time to convince Rex that they ought to _plan_ the journey first, not rush in headfirst. According to their scouts, the valley of Crá Gleann was situated in one of Elysium’s more rugged, unexplored regions. No doubt that gave the Aramach some of the privacy they wanted to scheme against the crown. But it left their group without much to go on in terms of terrain, travel routes, and the logistics of packing provisions. Still, Mòrag insisted on going herself, so the beginnings of a plan were drafted. And once they received Niall’s approval, they set out. 

Since they knew relatively little about the Aramach’s strength and numbers, caution was the name of the game. Most of the journey would need to be on foot, where it was easier to evade detection. And the memory of the Aramach blowing up the Emperor’s flagship was too fresh in Mòrag’s mind to risk taking even the smallest airship. So they called on Azurda to help; he dropped them off roughly two-thirds of the way to the valley. That cut a good week or two off their travel time. Plus, it gave Rex an opportunity to send a message back to Corrine about his continued absence (which, unsurprisingly, he had neglected to do—again). 

No one felt particularly enthusiastic about the thought of an indefinite-length hike through the Ardainian wilderness. But it couldn’t be helped. And thankfully, the first day’s walk passed by uneventfully, as if the Architect was kindly easing them back into their old habits. They took a moderate pace and made camp relatively early in the evening. For now, small game was plentiful—courtesy of Dromarch’s hunting proclivities—and they opted to save their field rations for later. Not that Pyra ever minded cooking, so long as Zeke and Pandoria stayed out of her way. 

“Awesome as always, Pyra,” Rex sighed happily, rubbing his belly once he’d cleaned his dish. “Say, Zeke. Once our food’s settled, wanna spar? It’s been a while.”

Zeke was still shoveling the last remnants of his bowl when he answered. “Sure, chum. Let’s see how manly you are now, eh?”

Nia groaned. “Seriously, guys? Already? Go over there when you do it.” She gestured to the widest part of the clearing. “That way the rest of us don’t have to smell you when you get soaked with sweat.”

“It’s not sweat, furry ears. It’s the precipitation caused by the incredible thunderstorm that is the Zekenator’s unfathomable power.”

Nia shook her head and stifled a laugh. She looked to Mòrag, who was helping the Aegis clean up. “Seriously, Mòrag. What possessed you to marry this spanner?”

A few weeks ago, Mòrag would have asked herself the same question. But now, she had at least a small clue as to the answer: his unshakable kindness and an uncanny ability to make her take things a little less seriously. Granted, she hadn’t realized that at the time. But such an honest answer would only egg Nia on. And as for _how_ he first demonstrated that kindness to her—she couldn’t possibly explain that.

“I’m still trying to figure that out myself,” she retorted instead.

Zeke flinched and gripped at his chest as if he’d been shot, making quite the spectacle of falling to his knees and then collapsing on the ground. “The Zekenator falls! Oh the calamity, the tragedy—fatally wounded by the sharp tongue of his own wife!”

Pandoria followed suit, begging him to “not go into the light” just yet and whacking him with her tail to try to rouse him. “Somebody help him!” she squeaked, barely containing her own laughter. “Nia! Mòrag! Rex! Anybody!”

Zeke looked Mòrag in the face. “Come on, Flames. Don’t let me die. I need mouth-to-mouth,” he deadpanned.

She almost got up and obliged him, mostly in hopes that it would stop him from being such a _dork_ —but no. Even though they’d kissed in front of the others dozens of times at the wedding, it still made her bashful. That tenderness was an indulgence she’d rather save for their private moments. 

“Dromarch, would you mind doing the honors?” she asked, gaze focused on the dish she was scrubbing. “I don’t want to drag my husband’s corpse home. And it’s hardly cold enough to bury him underneath a snowman.”

The “wounded one” pouted, and Dromarch looked like he was choking down a hairball. Brighid completely lost her composure and laughed out loud. After all, hearing Mòrag actually make jokes—and ones that were marginally funny—was so out of character. She couldn’t help but laugh audibly.

“I’d rather die, thanks.”

Pandoria kept giggling and helped Zeke to his feet. It didn’t take long for the girls to finish cleaning up the last of their dinner dishes, and by the time they had, Zeke and Rex were already going at it. In the “interest of protecting the natural ecosystem,” as Zeke put it, they weren’t fighting with their Blades, just their weapons. But even without the ether, they still made plenty of noise. The others largely ignored their antics. Tora busied himself with Poppi’s routine maintenance. Nia spent time grooming Dromarch’s fur while Brighid and Mythra reminisced about their old rivalry. Pandoria listened in while tending to Turters. 

Mòrag intended to take advantage of everyone’s distraction to sit against a tree and read for a while, enjoying at least the idea of some solitude. But her mind had other plans.

It should have been easy to engross herself in the text. After all, this was one of her favorites as a teen: a thrilling adventure story about Emperor Hugo. It was an exaggerated tale, but telling Zeke about Hugo’s Day had stirred up enough nostalgia to prompt her to pack it just in case they had a more relaxed evening. But no matter how many times she forced herself to look at the opening paragraph, her eyes kept trailing up to the pair of sparring Drivers.

Zeke didn’t dwarf Rex anymore—at least not as much as he did a year ago. And in most Bladed matchups, the two were evenly matched. But without Mythra’s foresight, Rex struggled to keep up with Zeke’s rapid strikes. The prince was holding back, never going too fast, just quick enough to keep the young Aegis Driver guessing. But not to be outdone, Rex managed to give him a decent fight. Both men were quickly dripping with sweat (although the smell was not as bad as Nia made it out to be). 

Mòrag’s eyes traced their movements, capturing and criticizing every strike with the gaze of a seasoned fighter. When she first met Zeke, she hated his fighting style. It struck her as wasteful; why did he spend all that energy faking out opponents and adding new twists and turns to his already powerful strikes? If he simply channeled that same energy and honed his technique like a soldier and not a showman, he would be a peerless Driver. But she quickly learned that his showmanship, as flashy as it was, came with a strategy: not only did those “wasted movements” allow him to follow the chaotic flow of his lightning’s ether energy, but they also lulled opponents into a sense of security. And now she understood that his out-of-control movements were just the opposite. Every trip, every extra flash of lightning was a carefully practiced technique. And those were techniques that Zeke developed himself, because traditional fighting styles be damned, he was his own Driver. 

Now that she knew to look for the technique beneath his “snazzy” combat theatrics, it was entrancing to watch him. The way he pretended to struggle with the weight of his sword, how he fluidly maintained his balance even though Rex used his anchor relentlessly (a good tactic, since Zeke’s center of gravity was a good ped and a half higher), the way he managed to be everywhere at once...how had she not noticed before? 

The fight paused long enough for the two Drivers to shed their shirts—to which Nia made a teasing whistling sound—so as not to overheat in the region’s intense heat. And then they began again, panting and dripping with sweat. Zeke commented that Rex was much “manlier” than he had been a year ago, thanks to a year gaining muscle mass on Corrine’s new farm. But he still seemed scrawny compared to Zeke, Mòrag decided. The difference was obvious in the tight, defined arcs that rippled across his back each time he raised his sword, how his arms bulged each time he brought it back down, or the pop of his abs every time he twisted or turned.

All at once she wanted to feel those muscles twitch underneath her fingers, like they had when they first cuddled under the saffronia tree in Uraya. 

It was a silly, nonsensical urge. Seeing his bare chest wasn’t new; he liked to sleep shirtless. And she hadn’t particularly minded; he walked around with just a half a shirt most days anyway. Over the past several nights, she’d even woken up to find herself with one arm slung across his chest. But that touch was unintentional; what she was feeling now...wasn’t. 

_How pathetic. You’re ogling like a pubescent adolescent. Pull yourself together, or you’re going to do something that will get you hurt._

“May I join you?” 

Brighid’s voice pulled her attention away from the spar. The Blade had her journal and pen in hand. Morag nodded, hoping Brighid would immediately settle into recording the day’s events. Instead, Brighid leafed through the book, aimlessly skimming more recent pages.

“Monday marks one month of married life for you,” she commented casually.

“And what a chaotic month it’s been,” Mòrag murmured. She was only half listening. She hadn’t given the anniversary much thought. What was the point? 

“And are you going to do anything to celebrate it?”

“Hopefully blow the Aramach off the map.”

Brighid gave another amused huff. “Not very romantic now, is it? Although I suppose I should have expected as much. You’re hardly the sentimental type...Lady Mòrag, you’re staring.”

“I am _not,_ ” she insisted, raising her book a little closer to her face. 

“Then is there another explanation as to why you’re still on page one of your novel?”

On that point, she could not argue. Brighid never failed to notice such things. She shut her book. “I-I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“No. But you should be grateful that Pyra and Mythra know which one you’re staring at. Or else you’d have a serious problem.”

A flush washed across her face. “I’m a confused mess of emotions. It’s immature.”

Brighid failed to stifle another chuckle. It was just so amusing to watch these feelings fail to compute in her Driver’s mind. The confused look on her face made her seem much younger. 

“A little interest in his body is nothing to be ashamed of, Mòrag. It’s perfectly natural. And quite frankly, I think it’s a good sign. But if you must stare, I have to recommend you do so with a bit more subtlety. Nia has already made remarks about ‘eye babies,’ and if you continue to pine like this, not even Dromarch will be able to persuade her to keep her comments to herself.”

Architect, did Brighid have to phrase it so damn bluntly? “I do not _pine_.”

“You just keep telling yourself that,” Brighid laughed.

“You’re supposed to be helping me feel _less_ confused, Brighid. Not more,” she groaned.

“As much as I love to assist you, Lady Mòrag, I’m afraid this is one matter that you must handle personally. Helping you avoid _looking_ like a lovestruck fool is one thing. But helping you determine whether you are or aren’t a lovestruck fool is beyond even my considerable talents.”

“Don’t you have anything helpful to say?”

“...Your instincts are rarely wrong, my lady. And you are usually right to follow them. Those instincts can still apply in your love life.”

Brighid’s phrasing made it sound so...informal, and yet formal at the same time. Formal in the sense that there’d already been a ceremony, and this was supposed to be a lifetime arrangement. Formal because it was political. And strangely informal because now she found herself wondering if maybe the relationship could move beyond that political formality.

“Love life” sounded informal because for the first time, she entertained the notion that maybe there was a sliver’s chance of actually having one. 

But all the same, if Brighid’s advice to “follow her instincts” was meant to be helpful, Mòrag didn’t see how. Because right now, she had two instincts, both conflicting. One told her to chase that foreign “love life” concept and indulge her own curiosity. And the other instinct told her to run in the opposite direction. To leave things exactly as they were was safe—kind of nice, even. So which instinct was she supposed to pick? 

When their little group finally started to settle down for the evening, she set out her bedroll next to Zeke’s, trying to ignore the not-so-subtle peeks the others stole while she curled up beside him. And when he rolled over for a little goodnight kiss, she didn’t bother trying to hide it.

* * *

“Oh my gosh, that’s so cute.”

“Don’t say the ‘c’ word! She hates that.”

“She’s asleep, dimwit.”

It seemed no one in their group was any good at whispering. But it took her a few moments after she woke to realize why they were whispering to begin with. She was lying on her side, head propped on one arm, legs half-curled...leaning against something warm and solid. An arm draped around her waist, and little rhythmic puffs of air tingled against her neck. 

“It’s like she’s his teddy bear.”

She stifled a nervous shudder when she realized how this must _look._ His proximity to her wasn’t the problem. Granted, it was slightly alarming to wake up in that position, but she couldn’t fault him for it. As it turned out, her subconscious self was a clingy sleeper. Maybe it was a lingering habit from when she used to hug Brighid in desperate attempts to keep the nightmares at bay. That was over a decade ago now, though. Or maybe she was braver about direct contacts when the haze of sleep kept the bad memories away. Regardless, it was becoming an increasingly common occurrence for her to wake with a hand across his chest or with her arm clenching at one of his biceps. 

Until now, he had never sleepily reciprocated those touches. And since his arm was truly situated around her waist—in the innocent space between her chest and her hips—it didn’t really bother her. 

At least, it wouldn’t have bothered her if he hadn’t done so in front of their friends. How had she not even noticed? She had always been a pretty light sleeper and an early riser. So she should have woken in time to slip out of his sleepy grip before they noticed. But to be found like this made her feel childish.

 _Architect, please let them go away. Go get breakfast,_ she thought, clenching her eyes shut. If they would just leave for a few minutes, she could steal away and avoid them until the worst of her embarrassment subsided. 

“Respiration rate of friend Mòrag is at standard operating levels,” Poppi recited.

“Wha—?”

“She awake. Only pretending to be in sleep mode.”

“Shit. Run!”

The same thought occurred to her (only to run in the opposite direction). But she simply peeled his arm off and walked the short distance to the stream to freshen up. The water was warm—almost too warm, like everything else in the area. It didn’t fit the fair weather the rest of Elysium had. But it helped to snap her out of this odd mood. Architect, she’d been so silly last night. She was indulging in petty distractions, and it had to stop. Especially now. 

_Get back to work, you fool,_ she chided to herself. It was something she said frequently to soldiers. But she needed the military scolding—to find the soldier side of herself again. That part of her life always made sense. By the time she returned to the others, she finally managed to reassemble her professional persona. 

And so their little group set out again, this time setting a much faster, driven pace.

Meanwhile, Zeke had to learn from Pandoria why everyone was acting so childish this morning. Her answer certainly explained why Mòrag was suddenly giving him the silent treatment. And when he finally got a few seconds alone with her when the others weren’t listening—well, technically, Brighid was hovering a few feet away as she always did—Mòrag still didn’t have much to say on the matter.

“Look, I’m really sorry. That was an accident, I swear. I’m trying to respect your space. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Her face and tone were both businesslike as she glared at him from underneath her cap. “It’s not the touch that’s the problem, Zeke.”

“Then what are you bloody mad about?”

“Control yourself when we’re in front of the others, please,” she hissed.

And then she stalked off. So this was about _appearances_ ? Kissing in front of them was okay, but somehow accidentally spooning her wasn't? How did that make a lick of sense? He never even planned on sleeping next to her last night. Sure, they still shared quarters at the palace, but that was because Mòrag didn’t want the servants gossipping, right? But now that they were out in the open air, he’d expected her to curl up by herself or next to Brighid. It both shocked and delighted him when she put her bedroll next to his instead. _She’d_ been the one to initiate this, not him. And now she was mad about it? Or was she just embarrassed that Mythra, Rex, and the others saw it?

Things with Pandy had never been this confusing. The beginning of their richer feelings, the thick of the shared emotions, even breaking it off had been as natural as breathing. But maybe that was because their affinity link made communicating feelings easy. And, of course, his Blade hadn’t had a shitshow of a childhood. Mòrag, however, rarely communicated her feelings to anyone. Even at the World Tree, when she tried to convey to Rex how they all felt—that they were like a little dysfunctional family—all she’d managed to say was “I’m so glad to have met all of you.” Not exactly a clear declaration of friendship or familial regard, much less anything deeper. But that was probably as verbally affectionate as Mòrag got.

And where was the damn line that he wasn't supposed to cross? It almost seemed like she kept moving it. One day it was okay to hold her close while they danced, and the next she was icing him out for an accident. How was he supposed to respect her boundaries with those sorts of mixed messages?

Then there were his own feelings to consider. And his own boundaries, really. He was resolved to keep letting her set the pace for their more intimate interactions; it was the right thing to do. And he didn’t regret it most of the time. Contrary to what his fighting style said, he could restrain himself. But some of the things she did kept confusing that resolve. Like last night, when she chose to sleep beside him. Or even earlier than that, when she was watching his spar with Rex—it didn’t take two eyes to see that she was staring. _That_ certainly hadn’t escaped his notice. And those keen, almond eyes just seemed to linger in his vision no matter how many times he blinked. 

_I’ve gotten myself in way over my head,_ he thought.

But overpowering all that confusion was one singular desire: for her to feel happy and whole again. Growing up, he’d always yearned to help fix things and make life better for people. That his father refused to do so was half the reason he’d left home. Life, however, taught him that he was usually too weak to help as much as he wanted. He didn’t have the strength, or he didn’t have the time or resources, or laws and traditional procedures prevented him, or he wasn’t around, or—the list went on and on.

This, though...maybe helping Mòrag was one thing he _did_ have enough strength to do. 

Rex’s inquisitive voice pulled him back to reality. 

“Say, Mòrag. Look, I’m no expert on Ardainian geography, but this place is weird. It almost looks volcanic. And it’s so damn hot. But Alba Cavanich is green and fertile, and the climate’s really fair. Why is that?”

The Inquisitor didn’t even bother to turn around as she answered. “I used to be an expert on Ardainian geography until last year. Now I’m still relearning it myself,” she admitted. “But I do know this: our Titan didn’t really merge with the land like the others. It crashed into it.”

“And what that mean?”

“Do you recall our Titan’s shape?”

“Yeah. It looked like a man with really long arms.”

“The only anthropomorphic Titan since Coiea, if the legends are correct,” Dromarch commented.

Mòrag nodded approvingly—as if anyone could forget the Titan’s shape. “The other Titans were alive when they merged with Elysium. Mor Ardain was in its death throes, for lack of a better term. So when it struck Elysium, he landed face-down. We essentially rebuilt our country around his corpse.”

“That’s creepy. Is there a point to this explanation?”

“Alba Cavanich was originally positioned by Mor Ardain’s shoulder. But when we rebuilt the capitol, we opted for a location that was much closer to the sea. So now Alba Cavanich is situated well below where Ardain’s waist used to be. That region is stable. Here, however, we’re much closer to its chest.”

“And you’re saying that this area isn’t as stable?”

“Titan bodies react with the atmosphere as they decay. The larger the Titan, the longer that process takes. And as a Titan dies, its remaining energy concentrates around its core to protect any Blades that might still be forming within its matrix. That concentration of energy, paired with the Titan’s decay, must be affecting this area. I think that’s why it’s less inhabitable,” Mòrag explained.

“Gosh, I swear you’re like an encyclopedia sometimes,” Rex replied. 

Pyra nodded in agreement. “Over time, the area should stabilize. Once the Titan’s residual energy has finally run out.”

“For now, though, we should be cautious.”

“So what is this Crá Gleann, anyway?”

Brighid took a turn explaining. “Mor Ardain’s remains create natural cliffs and mountains within the landscape. As a result, there’s a valley in the canyon between its torso and its left arm. That’s Crá Gleann, if our reports are correct. I expect the Aramach will have taken their fortress deep into the valley.”

“Wait. So we’re just walking up into the Titan’s... _armpit?_ ” Pandoria snickered.

Brighid scowled at the electric Blade. “Must you put it so immaturely? But for lack of a better term, yes.”

Nia shuddered. “That gives me a bad feeling.”

“How so?”

“Mor Ardain’s pretty big, right? So the canyon will be massive—no climbing in or out. We have to walk in...and walk back out in the same direction. It could be like walking into a Feris cave or den. Dromarch and I accidentally did that once when we were on the run. We almost didn’t make it back to the entrance of the cave. We can’t let that happen.”

“Let’s get there first. Then we’ll see what we’re up against. It might not be so bad,” Rex volunteered optimistically. 

As their journey continued, the landscape shifted even more. Trees gave way to rugged, rocky terrain. To the northeast, they could spot great cliffs—the Titan’s ribcage. Before long they would be able to see similar cliffs on the northwest. The heat only increased the closer they got to the Titan’s chest cavity. Whereas Brighid and Pyra had been the favorite Blades on their journey to Tantal, now Nia and Dromarch found themselves in the limelight for their water affinities. And when they settled down to make camp, there was no sparring or accidental cuddling. Everyone kept their distances from each other for no other reason than to preserve their body temperatures. Without the plentiful game of the previous days, they fell back to field rations. Ardainian field rations—not a morale booster. 

But it didn’t matter too much; they only had to choke down a few field meals before they found that the cliffs on either side were now much, much closer together. Less than a mile apart. They were approaching Crá Gleann. They slowed their pace then, focusing on subtlety.

Nia was right to worry, Mòrag decided. They had no idea how many airships the Aramach stole, how many men they truly had, and what they were after...besides revenge for the man Birall called his brother. The longer they could avoid detection, the better. And this was probably nothing more than a scouting mission, anyway. They had to be getting close.

As if on cue, Azami seemed to materialize in front of the group. Her porcelain-plated face gleamed with excitement. When Rex asked her how she’d found them, the Blade simply replied:

“I’ll do anything to be with my cutie-pie Driver. I’ve been watching you since you left.”

Rex shuddered at Azami’s unsettling declarations of loyalty, but Mòrag didn’t give it much thought. In fact, Azami would be a big help. Even if she couldn’t use her Clairvoyant Eye as well against the Aramach, she still made for a very good telescope. An assassin too, when necessary. If there were sentries posted outside the hideout, Azami would probably be the first to spot them. And thanks to her talents, it would be easier to sneak up to the fortress without having to wait for the cover of darkness. Azami quickly covered them with a sphere of camouflage-type ether. Ciaran might be able to prevent her from spying on the Aramach, but since this wasn’t a remote ether technique, it ought to work. 

And it did. 

After about an hour of walking—more like sneaking, really—the fortress came into view. “Fortress” wasn’t exactly the best term; there weren’t any buildings or structures. Instead, it was more like a blockade of grounded airships. The sight filled them all with dread. The Aramach didn’t have just three or four ships. There had to be at least two or three dozen of them, surrounding and guarding the Artigo like an imperial vanguard. And in the gaps between the ships were cannons of many shapes and sizes. Patrols and individuals alike meandered through the region.

“Shit,” Brighid whispered.

Everyone could tell how drastic the situation was simply by looking ahead, but hearing Brighid curse made that reality sink in (the only person who cursed less than Mòrag was her Blade). 

“...Mòrag, what are we supposed to do? Mòrag?”

“You go home, Rex. I can’t ask you to go further than this. It’s too dangerous.”

“Like hell we’re leaving,” Mythra retorted. “And if you’re planning on trying to break in alone, I’m going to personally knock you out and drag you back to Alba Cavanich. You can’t take them all on yourself. That’d be a suicide mission.”

“They’re trying to overthrow the Empire. I can’t simply turn around and leave them be. But it would take half an army to get in there.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Shut up! There’s a patrol coming!”

There was a sickening second or two when they all wondered if Azami’s ether camouflage would be enough to conceal them as a rough-looking group of men sauntered past. They were all armed; most had relatively crude, old weapons, but three or four had Blades. But more important than their weapons were the things they carried: a large crate of core crystals, some dormant and some ready to resonate. Mòrag shuddered; if they had this large of a crate in hand now, how many crystals were already inside the blockade? And how many enemy Drivers would they be dealing with? 

She took a second look at the group of Aramach. Her eyes kept returning to one figure: the man at the center. He looked to be the captain of the group. She could have sworn she’d seen him somewhere before. 

And then it hit her: Cor Baragh. 

So he was alive and well after all. But something didn’t quite seem right, either. Even in the fading sunlight, she got a good look at his face. His expression was odd. His eyes darted about, as if he expected someone to double-cross him at any moment. If she hadn't known any better, she would have said he was looking for a way out. He gripped his weapon tightly, too. It wasn’t the lance he held when she first met him, either; he was a Driver now. The Blade that strode behind him was just a common one, but she didn’t have to fight him to know that his combat abilities would be considerably improved now. The Blade’s expression matched his Driver’s. Both were afraid of something.

Why, though? Cor believed he was free now, protected from criminal prosecution by allying himself with the Aramach. He ought to be celebrating, enjoying the confidence that came from not being hunted day in and day out. But instead, he wore an expression of dread. But whether it was dread from within the fortress or without, she couldn’t tell.

She took two steps forward, drawn by the urge to wrap her whipswords around his ankles and yank him back to the capitol. After all, the day she’d first encountered this man, this chaos all started. Maybe if she could just capture him, things might begin to calm back down. 

Brighid’s crystalline hand clamped on her wrist, holding her back. 

“Mòrag, don’t be stupid. They’ll see you.”

_Just run in and light everything on fire yourself. They can’t hurt anyone if they’ve been burned alive._

No, she couldn’t do that. Even if she managed to light enough fires to burn every single ship to ash, that kind of rash stupidity would get her killed in the process.

_At least you’d kill them off. You’d do more good for the Empire with your death than you have with all of your worthless, secretive life._

_I thought I told you to go away._

_Not happening. You still need me. And now’s not the time to be arguing with me. You’ve got bigger issues right now, right?_

“Mòrag, what do we do?”

“...Let’s fall back. Get to someplace where it’s safe to talk.”

Retreating to that morning’s campsite felt like she was walking away after losing a battle. It made everything ache more, including the soreness in her feet, the heaviness in her eyelids, and the stiffness in her muscles. Dashed hopes tended to do that.

Given the region’s heat, it wasn’t necessary to make a fire. So they simply sat in a circle, using the light cast from the Blade’s core crystals and weapons to illuminate their surroundings. For a while, no one spoke. They already knew that the Aramach had bolstered their ranks by breaking convicts out of the prison. But no one expected their stronghold to be this massive. It was like a small state unto itself. A small state with a decent amount of firepower.

“If only I still had Siren. I could just wipe them out myself,” Mythra commented. 

Mòrag stared at the dim, flickering light flowing from the hilts of her swords. “...We’ll have to dispatch airships out here, I suppose. Our artillery is well equipped to dispatch airships, even ones on the ground.”

“You mean you’re just going to blow them all up? What if there are people in there who are only helping the Aramach because they got busted out of jail?” Zeke pointed out.

“They’re all criminals.”

“Yeah, but not all of them received the death penalty.”

“This isn’t Indol. The idealistic approach of just letting people live doesn’t work here,” Mòrag shot back.

“Well think about—”

“Cut it out, you royal arseholes,” Nia interrupted. “Now is not the time for you two to have another debate about capitol punishment!”

“And it’s a moot point, anyway,” Brighid added. “We can’t simply bomb them away. It’s too dangerous.”

“How so?”

“...The Titan’s decay _is_ making this region unstable, just as the gasses released by our Titan weapon in Temperantia were unstable. Even the soil here is highly flammable. If we were to bomb this region, the entire ecosystem would be affected. We could unleash toxic gasses that could travel as far as the capitol. Or the plant life for miles around might be destroyed. Not to mention all the innocent Blades that are trapped inside there. If we blow them up, we lose them, too.”

“Wait, the soil’s flammable? How do you figure?”

“You forget that mineralogy is one of my skills. Watch.”

Brighid reached down and traced a line with her fingers, picking up a small pile of soil. It was black and dusty—more like ash than dirt. Then she summoned a small ether shield so it formed a sphere around her entire hand. All it took was a single spark before the soil ignited, then burst. A little cloud billowed around that tiny explosion she’d caused. That cloud bounced harmlessly against the shield she conjured, but it did not dissipate until she burned it away completely.

“All that from just a single spark. Just imagine what would happen if an airship blew up,” Brighid warned.

“Or if Mòrag’s flames got out of control in a fight out here. Or Pyra’s. We’d all be toast,” Rex sighed.

“So we have to do a ground assault, then. Hand-to-hand combat, or else we all go up?”

“It seems so.” 

“Shit.” The Aegis Driver punched the ground beside him. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

Mòrag was almost grateful for his passionate reaction; he was expressing outwardly the same sentiment she felt internally. If a ground assault was their only option, she’d need several decades of soldiers, along with all the logistical support it would take to get them to this remote location. And since the region was so volatile, they couldn’t just be common infantrymen with rifles. She’d need Drivers—more than the four she had with her now. But with the Urayan conflict, there weren’t many men to spare. 

They were fighting a war on two fronts, and their defenses were spread thin, like butter over too much bread. 

Defending Mor Ardain in Titan form had never been this hard. Hyper-concentrated land mass had been difficult to live on, but keeping it safe was simple. These sprawling land masses, though—there were too many locations for Uraya to get in, and just as many for the Aramach to get out.

“...The royal council needs to hear about this. Maybe they’ll know what to do,” Mòrag said at last. It wasn’t what she wanted to do; it was what protocol and common sense demanded.

“So we’re just going to walk away from these creeps? What if they leave again?”

Zeke spoke up. “I don’t think they’re planning on leaving, chum. Whatever these guys are up to...I think this where they plan to finish it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, think about it. We have it on good authority that Birall and his brother wanted to make the Ardanach line pay for something. Mòrag makes up half of the Ardanach household. And she’s the Flamebringer. This region is one giant minefield for fire wielders. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“...You think they’re after me?”

He made a single nod. “They knew you wouldn’t be able to resist coming out here. And if they managed to get rid of you, it would be a cakewalk to get rid of Niall, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some fun experimenting with Titan/Elysium geography in this one. We're told that they merged with the land in the endgame, but not a whole lot of detail came with that. So my imagination went a little crazy. Moral of the story: don't walk into Titan's armpits, kids. It's dangerous.
> 
> Some really big stuff coming in the next 2-3 chapters (or do I say that every time?). I'm stoked. 'Til next time.


	18. A King's Pawns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this is a bit choppy/messy. NaNoWriMo has me going at breakneck pace (but I'm still on track to hit 50k wooooooooooo!). I'll come back and make edits later.

_ Life is a long series of comings and goings.  _

It was an old Ardainian saying, and for the Empire’s Special Inquisitor, it rang especially true. Only in days of peace did the Inquisitor—both Mòrag and her predecessors—remain in the palace for an extended period of time. Lately, life had been nothing  _ but  _ comings and goings, a relentless collection of arrivals and departures from Alba Cavanich to wherever her work took her. Even when she was stationed at the capitol, she went back and forth between the council chamber, her office, and the military headquarters. Normally, she didn’t mind it; the variety granted her some mental engagement in what could easily become a paperwork-only position. But at the moment, the back-and-forth was becoming irritating. 

The fact that her emotions were also stuck in limbo only made it worse. 

But as always, she forced herself to focus on her duties when they arrived back in Alba Cavanich. The most urgent matter? Preventing the Aramach from leaving their current position. Even if Zeke believed that they had no intention of leaving Crá Gleann—and Mòrag had a sneaking suspicion he was right—Mor Ardain couldn’t afford to track them down all over again. To that end, Azami and a few other Blades stayed behind as lookouts. Meanwhile, Mòrag intended to dispatch as many military forces as could be spared, deploying them in key positions to prevent anyone from getting in or out of the valley without Imperial leave.

But therein lay the problem: there weren’t enough forces to spare. One quick glance at her tactical maps said as much. Even now, she stared at the little pieces she’d spread across the crude map of Crá Gleann, hoping against all reason that her glare alone could make them spontaneously multiply. 

As a child, her lessons included routine games of chess. They were her favorite—her competitive nature reared its head even then—but as an adult she realized that each chess match had served to covertly teach her strategy, unit deployment, defense, and other tactics. Her tougher instructors had even made her play with only half her pieces so she could learn how to turn the tides of an impossibly outnumbered battle. She tried to recall those lessons now; her allocable forces looked like that half-empty chessboard in the middle of an intense game. She had enough pieces to keep the Aramach’s king—the Artigo airship—in check, but check _ mate _ remained elusive. 

“Say Mòrag, I’ve got a suggestion,” Rex volunteered one afternoon. She was glad that he’d waited to barge into her office until after her meetings were done for the day; the Imperial guards did not take too kindly to unannounced visitors—not even the driver of the Aegis.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“I know the Empire’s strapped for troops. But it’s critical that the Aramach don’t get away, right?”

She nodded. “We’re doing what we can to set up a defensive blockade around their hideout. The goal is to prevent them from going in or out. Then we’ll neutralize them when we can pull troops from the Urayan front.”

“Kinda like a siege, right?”

“Exactly.”

Rex frowned. “And judging by the little pieces on that map of yours, you don’t have enough men to do the job properly.”

Her expression matched his as she looked at the map again. The Aramach weren’t occupying a huge landmass, but siege blockades required a pretty substantial force to effectively prevent anyone from going in or out. She had enough men and airships at her disposal to form a mediocre perimeter around the valley. But if the Aramach wanted to break free, they could do so easily at the weak spots—even without the region’s unstable properties working to their advantage. Rex was right; it wouldn’t work. Not for long

“No. I’m afraid we don’t. If I could pull two decades of soldiers from the Urayan front we might be able to manage it, but General Haig has made it quite clear that none can be spared for now.”

“That’s where I think I can help.”

“Unless you can somehow convince Uraya to wave a white flag or agree to a ceasefire, I’m not sure what you can do alone.”

Rex grinned. “Don’t forget that I’m still technically in charge of the Garfont Mercenaries. Yeah, we’re not an army, but keeping these scoundrels cornered sounds right up our alley. And you know we’ve got enough folks to fill in the gaps.”

Charming Rex—his relentless optimism was only ever overshadowed by his dauntless generosity. If folks had half his heart, life in Elysium would be a lot simpler.

“Rex, I can’t ask you to do that,” she replied. “And I doubt I have the budget to pay that many mercenaries. Not without senatorial approval, at least. And acquiring that is never easy.”

“You qualify for the family discount. Obviously I’d need you to pay something, since the firm’s still Yew and Zuo’s livelihood. But I can eat some of those costs for your sake.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Salvager’s code, for one thing!” he exclaimed happily. But then his gleeful expression faded. “Friends have each other’s backs. They help out no matter what. And I don’t feel like I’ve been much help through all this.”

“That’s not true, Rex. You’ve been an incredible help. I’d be lost without your assistance.”

“I dunno about that. If only I’d been more careful in the demilitarized zone, you wouldn’t have had to come rescue us, and then Uraya wouldn’t have gotten mad at Mor Ardain. There wouldn’t be a war if not for my sorry arse. Then you’d have all the soldiers you need to take care of the Aramach right away. I can’t get involved in a conflict between Mor Ardain and Uraya. Picking sides in that...it wouldn’t be right for Pyra, Mythra, and me to do. But giving you some of the mercs to keep the Aramach in line—that I can do. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll help make up for the mess I’ve caused.”

Rex grew a lot in the last year, but the pout on his face now made him look like a child. When Mòrag first met him, she’d both envied and pitied him. Envied, because how could the Aegis pick a naive, stubborn child who barely knew how Blade weapons worked? Of course, that envy had faded quickly when she realized what a burden it was to be the Aegis’s Driver—to bear the hopes and prayers of a dying world. Shortly after, she came to pity him; it was far too heavy of a burden to place on a boy. Then she came to admire how resolutely he’d shouldered that burden, stubbornly carrying it all the way to Elysium and losing much of his childish innocence in the process. That should have been the end of it. But here he was, still bearing the burden of being Pyra’s Driver. His potential power still scared both nations, and now he was caught in the crossfire between them simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was unfair. And he was not to blame for any of it. Mòrag told him as much.

“I still feel awful,” Rex protested. “Please let the mercs help, Mòrag. Let me help clean up this mess.”

“...I’ll bring the suggestion to His Majesty,” Mòrag decided. The look in his eyes—he needed the reassurance that his actions were helping, not hurting. And the Empire could use the assistance. Hiring mercenaries wasn’t unprecedented, either. “Could you give me a better idea of how many men you’d be offering, along with a cost estimate?”

The young salvager nodded, and the optimism came rushing back into his gaze when he realized that his offer might be accepted. “You betcha. I’ll touch base with Yew right away.”

He scurried off to do as she asked, practically colliding with Brighid at the office doorway. There was a very awkward exchange as he tried to apologize (her Blade still intimidated him a tad when she caught him off-guard). Brighid gave a polite little smile while he practically tripped over himself in embarrassment.

“Lady Mòrag, Emperor Niall wishes to see you,” Brighid said, unfazed by Rex’s flustered exit.

“I wondered if he’d send for me soon,” Mòrag commented, replacing the lid over her tactical board. Maybe after some time tackling other tasks—and some new pieces to add thanks to Rex—the inspiration for a winning strategy would come to her. “Thank you, Brighid. I’ll head there immediately.”

She expected that Niall would want to discuss the current situation with the Aramach. When they first arrived back at the capitol, she briefed him right away; he’d given her tentative orders and arranged for an urgent meeting with his council. Armed with their advice, he probably had more concrete instructions for her now. 

She was correct—mostly.

Niall cut to the quick of the conversation, not even waiting for her to finish her customary bow before he started talking. Oh, how she missed the times when they could speak informally about the day together. Everything was so direct, so businesslike now. Pleasantries were a liability during war. They, too, were pieces on a chessboard—pieces that had to act as the board dictated.

“Your report was incomplete, Special Inquisitor.” Niall’s voice was unusually icy.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re implying, Your Majesty,” she recited. She simultaneously racked her brain for any details she failed to mention. 

“Brighid told me more about the terrain. You said that the volatility made it unwise to conduct a bomb raid against the region. But you failed to mention that a single stray flame the size of a match could be deadly.”

Oh. That. She included it in the written report, but she hadn’t mentioned it in her oral report to him. Was he  _ angry  _ that she’d left it out?

“My apologies, Your Majesty. But that information was of little consequence. It can easily be worked around.”

“And I’m sure General Haig will do so expertly,” Niall replied.

“Haig? But I thought he was stationed at the border.”

“He still is. I plan to have you swap assignments with him. He will handle the Aramach, and you will transfer to lead the combat against Uraya.”

“Majesty, I really must protest. Tracking down the Aramach—”

“Is  _ done.  _ Yes, they still need to be defeated. But I will not be sending you to do so.”

“With all due respect, that responsibility is mine. I ought to handle it. I want to.”

Niall shook his head. “Your passion for this case is admirable, Mòrag. But now that I’ve heard the full report, I have to agree with Prince Zeke. I think the Aramach are targeting you specifically. For them to pick a region that’s so anti-fire...I fear that’s no coincidence. And I refuse to send you directly into a trap that’s set for you.”

“Please do not let your feelings for me cloud your judgment. You said it yourself. The Aramach are a terrible threat, and it behooves Your Majesty to dispatch our best forces against them. And I am the best soldier our army has. My safety is of little consequence.”

She normally hated the idea of using her label as “Empire’s most powerful Driver” as a bargaining chip; there were plenty of Drivers who, with a Blade as powerful as Brighid, would probably rival her for the title. But the thought that Niall would order her not to finish off the Aramach personally made her chest ache. Yes, Haig would do an excellent job, but...It felt like she  _ needed  _ to be there.

“It  _ behooves  _ me to dispatch the best forces for the task. So I will not send you directly into a trap with your name on it,” Niall insisted. “Tell me: if our roles were reversed, would you not refuse to send me?”

“...I would send someone else. Someone for whom the trap had not been set. Someone with water affinities,” she admitted. 

Niall shook his head. “Then please don’t ask me to send you. I need my sword and shield a while longer.”

“As you wish.”

He visibly brightened, relieved. “Thank you. I believe this is for the best. After all, the Senate intends to surround the Aramach’s hideout and starve them out. I do not wish to see your magnificent talents wasted on a siege.”

“I thought the siege was only a temporary measure until we could reassign some troops. We agreed that the threat needed to be dispatched quickly.”

“If we have the Aramach locked down in Crá Gleann, they are not much of a threat anymore, correct?” Niall continued without waiting for her answer. “For once, the Senate and I are in agreement. They wish to keep casualties to a minimum, especially with the toll Uraya has taken on our current forces. If we engage the Aramach in armed conflict, then we run the risk of destroying the entire region. But by locking them within their ramshackle fortress and starving them out, we may not only reduce casualties but also recover everything they’ve stolen from us.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty. How soon shall I depart for Uraya?”

“The day after Hugo’s Day. General Haig will brief you when you arrive. Once you are apprised of the situation, he will depart for Crá Gleann.”

Mòrag hoped her disappointment wasn’t visible on her face. She had her orders, and as much as she wanted to contest them, the Emperor’s will was law. And who knew? Maybe if the siege against the Aramach lasted long enough—and it might—she could still punish some of them herself.

* * *

“Boss, I don’t like this. We’re sitting ducks.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Baragh.”

Pachnall’s expression was dismissive; he quickly returned to the palace maps he’d been studying so meticulously. Cor resisted the urge to grab those maps and shred them. What use was it to pour over pictures of sewer tunnels and architectural schematics to Alba Cavanich when the Imperial army had their hideout completely surrounded? Pachnall ought to be pouring over maps of the area to help get them out of this mess. Or at least ordering spies to sacrifice themselves in attempts to find a way past the Ardainian perimeter. But surely, planning a heist at a now-unreachable palace was the biggest waste of time imaginable.

Something about the Aramach’s boss had changed, as if a component in his machine-like brain had snapped. It started the day their spy in the palace got caught. And every day it spiralled a little further out of control. The changes were subtle at first: missed meals, fixating on the best way to entrench themselves in this valley, and unusual irritability with members. But that irritability worsened into outright anger—he even lashed out at his own Blade a number of times. His men avoided him as much as possible; his outbursts often caused physical damage, and it was better to let a Blade take the brunt of that anger. At least Ciaran could regenerate from it. 

Even now, Pachnall seemed intent on ignoring the greater danger: they’d backed themselves into a corner. And now, thanks to the Imperial army and the mercenaries tagging along with them, no one could get in or out of the valley, not even by airship. Their food stores would only last so long. And anyone who ventured too close to the Ardainian perimeter quickly learned how masterful the enemy snipers were.

After years on the run, Cor recognized the feeling of being trapped. But now a nagging suspicion told him that he and the rest of the Aramach were the bait. 

“We’ve gotta get out of here, boss. What happened to those guerilla tactics you planned? We can’t win against them. Not here. Not like this,” Cor urged.

“Why would we leave now?” Pachnall laughed. “The stage is set. I’m precisely where I want to be. That’s  _ her  _ army, Cor. And she’ll be at its head. Why would I leave when she’s finally on her way to see me again?”

_ I doubt she  _ **_wants_ ** _ to see you,  _ Cor thought to himself. 

“What if they starve us out? She might not come.”

“Nonsense,” Pachnall scoffed. “She’s set her sights on us. We may be hungry for a while, but she’ll come. I just have to be patient.”

“...You’re using us as cannon fodder, then.”

Pachnall finally looked up from his maps. “Not you, of course. You’ve become my left hand, Ciaran is my right. I won’t waste such valuable pieces on my chessboard. But the others, they’re merely pawns. They owe their lives to me. And now I’m just going to collect on that debt.”

It didn’t take a master chess player to know to see the lie in Pachnall’s metaphor. Any chess piece was expendable except for the king, especially if it meant drawing in the enemy’s queen or king. And Pachnall wanted both: the Emperor and his Special Inquisitor. He would sacrifice Ciaran if he had to in order to capture them.

_ I’m not a damn piece on a chessboard. And I won’t be sacrificed.  _

The game had been fun, Cor had to admit. But now it was time to stop playing. He loved high stakes, but he drew the line at gambling his own life.

But where to go? A single step into Mor Ardain would have him shot on sight. And he knew that every other country had extradition agreements with the Empire; it looked like he was going to die here, at the hands of the Empire, or in a prison—also at the hands of the Empire. If only there was someplace he could go where Mor Ardain couldn’t touch him. Or if he had some kind of leverage to bargain for amnesty. 

And then it hit him. He  _ did  _ have one form of leverage: information about the Ardainian crown. Information that could be particularly damning if one of the Empire’s enemies found out about it. He wasn’t supposed to know, but he had put all the pieces together simply by watching Pachnall’s twisted fixations over the past several months. And he knew just where to sell that information. 

Maybe Uraya was a nice place to live.

* * *

If Mòrag was going to be forbidden to squash the Aramach personally, she wanted to do the next best thing and take the fight to Uraya right away. Anything to be productive. But Hugo’s Day prevented it. Such was the typical Ardainian way—to demand utmost efficiency but to place equal importance on fickle things like holidays. At least it came quickly.

Mor Ardain regarded Emperor Hugo as something of a folk hero. As a result, Hugo’s Day was primarily a festival for the people. Throughout the capitol, people traded little tinkered machines they’d crafted, and the streets reeked of Rhogul à la Ardainaise (no one truly liked the dish, even though it had come a long way in five hundred years; most ate it for tradition’s sake alone). The only reason the air remained tolerable was the full stock of Eternity Perfume sold by traders from the south. Meanwhile, in the fields outside the capitol, brave youths entered a fighting tournament; the winner would be offered a chance to become an Imperial Driver. The final rounds of the tournament usually proved to be a fine display of swordsmanship. In peaceful years, Mòrag would attend (much to the surprise and anxiety of the contestants). That gave her an opportunity to speak with the winner, who almost always resonated successfully with a Blade. Many of the tourney’s victors ended up becoming some of their best soldiers, and she enjoyed tracking their careers despite what some might call “humble origins.”

It seemed like a silly tradition, but deep down, every Ardainian knew that Emperor Hugo would have loved it. So they kept it. Meanwhile, among the nobility, Hugo’s Day was another stuffy holiday that the statesmen pretended to observe, using the state dinner as a thinly-veiled opportunity to further their own political agendas. 

Every year, Mòrag hated going. Because every year, someone found something to criticize her for. Typically, it was some complaint over her attire. Special Inquisitor or not, most thought she ought to wear a formal gown. And every time, she wore her military dress uniform—mostly just to spite them. Why should this year be any different?

She adjusted her collar, wondering who Niall had asked to be his escort for the evening. It felt so odd to imagine him going with anyone but herself. Had he just asked the most convenient or amiable girl his council recommended? Or was there someone he took particular interest in? He was old enough for such feelings. She mentally kicked herself for neglecting to ask. The public would definitely take an interest in the first non-relative to appear with the Emperor. What if she wasn’t worthy of him? Or what if she was just a golddigger?

_ Stop it. You’re being petty. Niall can handle asking a girl to a silly dinner party. Just because you can’t manage small talk doesn’t mean he can’t. And it’s one party. It doesn’t mean anything. _

Zeke emerged from the bathroom, looking very uncomfortable in a button-up, pants, and overcoat. He probably toyed with the idea of leaving several of the buttons undone. But if not for his obvious taste for the formal garb, he would have looked rather sharp.

“You look—”

“Like a pinhead,” he scoffed.

“I was going to say you look nice,” Mòrag said, “but I suppose we can go with ‘pinhead’ instead.”

He grinned. “Meh, I’m going to be outshone by my date anyway, so I’m not sure why it matters. Because you look great.”

“It’s just my dress uniform. Hardly different from what I normally wear. Now come on. We’re going to be late.”

To Mòrag’s relief, the state dinner passed without incident. She received a few passing questions about affairs with the Aramach or the Urayan conflict, but for the most part, the night was simple. And Niall’s dinner companion set her mind at ease, too: Lady Maeve Byrne, daughter to the head of the Senate’s Ceartas party. She was a year or two older than the Emperor, but from what Mòrag knew of her, she was level-headed, politically savvy, and well-regarded by peers and adults alike. And even though Niall excelled at pretending to be amiable towards everyone, Mòrag could tell he genuinely enjoyed her company. 

A decent choice for his first non-relative dinner companion, Mòrag decided. The press would still probably draw a wide range of ridiculous conclusions from her presence, but at least they wouldn’t have much negative to say about the girl. 

When the dinner itself ended, the nobles lingered and chatted. It was tedious. So when the first opportunity presented itself, she escaped to the veranda to get some air. Zeke saw her go. He followed, recalling how he’d followed her out of her birthday gala several months ago now. He was so nervous then that he’d blurted a proposal. In that tense second, he regretted it. But now he didn’t—for a lot of reasons, really. If nothing else, his proposal kept her from marrying a scoundrel who didn’t care for her needs. Because he knew she would have gone through with the marriage no matter who the arrangement was with. Architect, she was so damn brave. And so selfless that it nearly ached. 

Did she ever do anything selfish? Simply because  _ she _ wanted to?

“Leaving the party already? I thought the Inquisitor’s presence was required,” Zeke commented when he was at her side.

“I’m required to attend, not stay all night. Parties have never been my thing. If they aren’t for me, I usually make myself scarce pretty quickly.”

“Can’t blame you there. Most people seem to come simply so they can hear themselves talk.”

“I’ve got too much on my mind to be much of a conversationalist, anyway.”

“Comes with your job, I suppose. Although if I had to guess, I’d say you’re particularly worried about everything regarding Niall.”

There was a lot that was confusing about Mòrag, but that much he could guess. She liked to feel in control of her circumstances whenever possible, and while the circumstances surrounding both Uraya and the Aramach were chaotic, she could take active measures on both fronts. But the possibility that Niall’s identity might be leaked...she was helpless against that possibility. For now, anyway.

She nodded, confirming his suspicions. “If anyone found out, we’d have chaos. You know, at times like this, I wonder if I did the right thing by keeping him. If I’d let him go...maybe he would have had a much happier life. No one would be looking to assassinate him. And questions of his legitimacy wouldn’t really matter. He’d be free to do whatever he wanted. Did I give him his best chance in life? Or would he have been better off in a normal family?”

“You’ve always been there for him. That counts for something, right? And if you had given him up, do you think you would have been able to live with yourself?” Zeke asked. 

The concept of a Mòrag who’d never really known Niall seemed so unreal. She would have been Empress. But would she have become the same strong, silent, resilient, and kind woman he saw now? The warrior he admired so much? Or would she have been a mighty, militaristic ruler like her forefathers? 

“Dwelling on the what-ifs is of little consequence. But I certainly can’t really imagine life without him, either. And his self-doubts aside, he certainly has the makings of a great ruler. I just wish he could have the same confidence in himself as I have in him.”

_ And I wish you could see yourself the way I do,  _ Zeke thought.

He hesitated, wondering if now was the right time to suggest  _ that _ . He’d given it a lot of thought since hearing Birall hiss his accusation about incorrectly documented births. But he had no idea how Mòrag might respond, either. On one hand, it was really just a matter of paperwork. On the other, Mòrag was so self-reliant. She might not want his assistance, especially for this.

But maybe, just maybe, it would help alleviate some of the fear. He had to try.

“I’ve been thinking about you and Niall alot, actually,” he began, trying to find the right words. “For your sake, I hope it never gets that messy. He’s a good kid. And you’re right. He makes a great ruler. He has you to thank for that, really. I mean, sure, the Emperor raised him. But without you, he wouldn’t be nearly as kind or as brave as he is. And—”

“Are you nervous about something? Because you’re rambling,” Mòrag interrupted. “Get to the point, Zeke.”

It was that obvious? Great. Now he had to go through with it. So much for thinking through the right phrasing.

“...One of your biggest concerns is that he’d be forced to abdicate the throne, right? On account of that legitimacy rot and all.”

She sighed, propping her elbows against the banister. “Yes. That, and the fact that I’d have to explain the truth to him. I have no idea how he would react.”

“Um...I’ve been thinking—Mor Ardain’s law allows for adopted successors to rule, right? Like, they’re considered legitimate heirs?”

“Yes. They’re not preferred, but if a ruler chooses to appoint an adopted heir as a successor, it is a legitimate practice. I’m living proof of that,” Mòrag explained.

“Well, I hope that the truth stays under wraps for your sake. But if it did...if they tried to oust Niall because they found out about his parentage...um, I’d be willing to adopt him.”

She shot back into an upright position and stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

“But only if you wanted me to, I mean,” Zeke added hurriedly. “And it’s not like I’d expect Niall to treat me like his dad or anything. I just figured if, from a legal standpoint, he was our son, he’d be a legitimate heir on paper. Legally, they wouldn’t be able to force him off the throne. He could stay Emperor.”

She blinked once, twice, as if the information was bouncing around in her brain without registering. 

Shit. Maybe it was still too soon to bring it up. 

“Y-you would do that for us?” she asked at last. He’d never heard a tone of such quiet disbelief.

“Of course I would. For you.”

“But you’d be taking a bastard child into your household. If you did that, you’d, well, people would—”

“What, they’d talk?” Zeke took his turn to interrupt. “You know I don’t give a damn about what other people think. So let them talk.”

“...Why are you doing all this? Why are you being so good to me?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Even in the dim lamplight, he caught a glimpse of the tears lingering in her eyes. 

“Don’t you know? Mòrag, I care about you. A lot.”

She made an odd choking noise and shook her head violently. “Don’t. You really shouldn’t. Not if you know what’s good for you.”

“I shouldn’t care about you? Why not?”

Now the tears were really falling, and she wouldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m a dangerous person to love,” she choked out. “People who care about me either hurt me, or they end up getting hurt. It happens every damn time. So don’t waste your care on me. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He took her hands in his, wishing his touch alone could stop the trembling. It made his chest knot to see her like this—she actually believed that. “Mòrag, I’m not going anywhere. And I’m sure as hell not going to hurt you.”

“That’s what they all say. But they’re all gone. L-loving me is dangerous.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He gave her hands a reassuring squeeze.

“Please don’t,” she whimpered. “I don’t think I could live with myself if anything happened to you because of me.”

“Mòrag, nothing’s going to happen to me.”

He gently pulled the glove off her right hand and let it flutter to the ground. Her eyes asked a thousand questions as he guided her now-bare fingers to his chest, coming to a stop over the core crystal fragment that gleamed there. She tried to pull away—she always seemed wary of touching the stone in his chest—but he held her hand firmly, letting her feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint pulse of ether through the crystal, and the steady, constant rhythm of his heart. 

“Do you know what that is?” he asked quietly.

“Your heartbeat. And your core crystal fragment,” she stated matter-of-factly, already trying to banish her sniffles.

He shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s proof that I’m not like the others, Mòrag. It proves I’m a survivor through and through. I mean, think about it: I bloody nearly died because I got ambushed by assassins after I left home. But I lived. For ten years, I lived with a man who tried to destroy the entire world, and somehow, I never got bumped off. I got hit by a giant boulder and catapulted off your Titan, and all I did was bruise my tailbone. I got stabbed by Jin. Still lived. I’ve fallen off more cliffs than I care to admit, despite being scared of heights, and yet I’m still here, in one piece. Maybe the other people you cared about are gone, but that’s not going to be me. I’m a survivor, Mòrag. I care about you, but I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

At those words, she collapsed against his shoulder. Whether it was a collapse from relief or lingering doubts, he couldn’t really tell. But she lingered there. Her hand never left his core crystal, as if she was hoping the pulsing blood and ether would become permanently etched into her fingers. 

“Thank you. I’ll give your offer some thought,” she whispered at last.

“No rush. And I hope you never have to take me up on it. But if it comes to that, it’s an option for you.”

After a while longer, her forehead lifted from his shoulder, and she lazily kissed his neck. He stifled a gasp; she probably didn’t mean to do that, right? Surely she was going for his chin or cheek and missed. Now was not a good moment for a more romantic gesture, not right after all those tears. But maybe the gesture was intentional—Mòrag’s odd, slightly skewed way of expressing affection or gratitude. She probably had no idea how it made his gut twist. 

“Should we get back to the party? Or call it a night?” he asked, hoping the question might prompt her to pull away. The scent of her hair—he was keenly aware that it was a subtle mix of rosemary and mint—he needed to get air that didn’t smell so much of her. 

To his relief, she withdrew. The pained expression was gone now, replaced by one that seemed more at ease than she’d looked in weeks. 

“That depends. Do I look like I’ve been crying?”

“Nah. You’re good.”

“Then let’s go back,” she replied. “I never got the chance to talk to Lady Maeve, and it would be rude not to say hello.”

“Gonna give her the what-for as his protective older sister? Threaten to broil her alive if she breaks his heart?” Zeke teased.

She rolled her eyes. “It was an invitation to a simple dinner party, nothing more. And Brighid does the broiling. Not me.”

“Hah! Come off it, lady. He’s getting to that age, and it’s killing you. Admit it.”

“...Fine. I admit it feels odd. But I came into this marriage for the express purpose of giving Niall time to find a mate that he chose himself. So I won’t interfere.”

“You say that, but judging by your current expression, I feel badly for Maeve if she ever upsets him.”

“Well, then. I suppose you’ll just have to come with me and make sure I don’t scare her too badly.”

She picked up her glove, pulled it back on, and slipped her hand into his as they rejoined the festivities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to end this one with fluff/feel good vibes because things are about to get crazy. Cor *might* be on his way to cause some serious trouble.


	19. Secrets Spoken, Secrets Heard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a lot longer than I expected. But given some of the content, I don't think some of you will mind. ;) And yet, Cor stirs up further trouble. So maybe you will mind? Heh.

“Umm, Mòrag. What the hell are you doing?”

“Nia. I didn’t realize you were coming along. I thought you’d be going with Rex and Pyra.”

Mòrag lowered the project she’d been fiddling with. A quick glance at the clock told her that she had whittled away—literally—an hour of the flight to the front. She ought to have spent the time reading the latest war briefing before arriving at the front lines, but the feeling of curled fragments peeling away from the wood was oddly soothing. It helped her think. 

“Going with them was my original plan. But the Emperor asked me to come and watch your back. I think he’s worried you’ll get your arse hurt on the front lines.”

She rolled her eyes, thankful that at least around Nia, she could be a little freer with her own exasperation. Not only was Niall refusing to give her the assignment she really wanted, but he was also giving her babysitters. Since when was he so concerned for her safety? 

“I can handle myself,” she said aloud.

“Oh, come off it. This won’t be the first time I’ve had to heal your sorry arse, Miss ‘I’m-Going-to-Draw-the-Aggression-of-Every-Single-Monster-in-a-Fifty-Ped-Radius.’ And I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

“So you nickname Zeke ‘Shellhead’ and that’s what you’re going to call me? Really?”

“Your nickname is a work in progress. Anyway, what’s this?” The Gormotti gestured to the piece of wood she held. “Are you...carving a turtle?”

She nodded, holding up her half-finished carving so her friend could see it better. Nia took it and gave it an appraising look. Her eyebrows shot up, ears twitching in surprise.

“Woah, that’s not half bad! I didn’t peg you for the artistic sort.”

Mòrag shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d call this ‘artistic.’ I’m just very skilled at cutting things with a knife. But thank you.”

“Is this supposed to be for Shellhead?” Nia asked bluntly. 

“Maybe, provided I don’t ruin it in the process...It’s silly, I know.”

She never really intended to carve a turtle to begin with. But when she found the chunk of deer wood when they stopped to refuel, she picked it up, borrowed Brighid’s dagger, and started aimlessly knifing away shavings, lost in thought. The turtle had just _emerged_ from the wood without prompting. It wasn’t until she began carving the more intricate tortoise-like details along the shell that she realized exactly what she was doing. In truth, it was a crude little carving, but considering the fact that her typical weapon burst into flames and extended into a whip, she fared quite well with the tiny knife. Nia’s “not half bad” description fit the bill. 

“I dunno what to make of this, honestly. Like is it supposed to be a romantic gesture? If so, then I guess it’s kinda cute. But it’s stuff like this that makes it so hard to come up with the right nickname for you. Like, you’re really hard to peg. Just when I think I have you down as a stoic warrior, you go and do things like this. Hmm...maybe we’ll go with ‘Shellhead’ and ‘The One Who Has the Hots for Shellhead’ for now.” 

“I do not have th-the _hots_ for him.”

“Yes you do. Honestly, it’s a wonder that your wooden turtle hasn’t burst into flames in your hand when you think about him.”

“To quote Mythra: ‘I’ll burn you,’” Mòrag warned.

“I kid, I kid! Sheesh. Seriously, though. It’s obvious you like him.”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’ve been saying ‘it’s complicated’ for months now...But _Zeke_ isn’t what’s complicated for you. It’s your past, right? Something that happened fourteen or fifteen years ago now, I think.”

Mòrag stared at her. Even though she had pieced together the fact that Nia used to be Elsie’s Blade during their delve into the Spirit Crucible, she never actually broached the topic with her. Nia clearly hated talking about her past, and out of sympathy, Mòrag chose not to bring up the subject of her Driver. Dredging up those memories might be painful for the Gormotti. She always had suspicions that Nia might know something about her stay in Gormott. But until now, the Blade had never breathed a word of it, so she’d kept her peace. 

“So you do know.”

“...You didn’t honestly think we were never going to talk about it, did you? About her. And you, really.”

“Those days were challenging for us both. I did not want to stir up painful memories,” Mòrag admitted. “What all did Elsie say about me?”

Nia gave a bittersweet smile. “She actually didn’t tell me all that much. Just that she’d met a new friend named Morgan. I put the pieces together on my own over time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Flesh Eaters are, well, unique. Our Drivers...they don’t exactly live on inside us. It’s not like I have two voices going in my head at all times. She’s here, but she isn’t at the same time. Ugh, I’m not explaining it very well. You see, Elsie’s mostly gone. It’s like I have broken bits of her memories, though. And on really rare occasions, she tells me to do something or not to do something—almost like a second conscience, I guess. Or maybe I’m just going mad. Either way, after I... _ate_ her, I started seeing bits of her memories. A lot of them were jumbled, especially the ones near the end. But most of the clearest, happiest ones involved you. Or at least, a younger, pregnant version of you. I connected the dots. I don’t know the whole story, of course, but I gather you went through some serious shit back then. And it’s why a relationship is so complicated for you.”

“...Elsie was a good friend to me back then, even though we didn’t know each other for very long.”

“You meant a lot to her, too,” Nia said quietly. 

“Why are you telling me all this? Why now?” Mòrag asked. 

“Well for starters, she wanted me to thank you for being her friend. And she wants you to be happy. She said as much.”

“But I thought you—”

“Yeah, she can’t really talk to me. I can still sense her emotions, though. So I can tell that she’d want you to be happy.”

“...Now’s not a good time to be concerned for my personal happiness. Not with everything that’s going on.”

“If you constantly wait for a good time to try to find your happiness, you’ll never start looking, Mòrag. And it’s not selfish to look for it. Sometimes, taking care of yourself can actually be the best way to help others.”

Mòrag couldn’t fight back a disbelieving huff. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m talking from personal experience here, so don’t laugh at it. Just think about it. You’re a great soldier now, even though anyone can see you’re letting your so-called complicated feelings for Zeke rip you apart. But what if you just accepted your feelings for him? What if you let yourself be happy? I think it’d make you even more powerful. Hell, if you managed to banish your own demons, I don’t think anyone could stop you.”

“...None of what you’re saying makes sense, Nia.”

Nia shook her head, as if Mòrag’s dismissive response exasperated her. “I think you’ll understand someday.” 

The Gormotti handed back the half-carved turtle and walked away, leaving Mòrag struggling to wrap her head around the thought that pursuing her own happiness wasn’t inherently selfish. That couldn’t be true, could it? And yet something about the statement seemed to stick inside her chest, like it belonged there. 

But she didn’t have time to ruminate over the baffling suggestion Nia made; at that moment, the airship transitioned into a landing pattern, its engines and turbines whirring as it slowly circled down to a makeshift dock. And then the assault of incessant meetings began: a briefing with General Haig, an appraisal of their current resources, and a firsthand look at the battle zone.

That last item was bone-chilling. In truth, the scene was very straightforward: destruction everywhere. Not terribly bloody, or at least not yet. Unlike man-to-man combat, most of this conflict thus far had been artillery, a cacophony of tanks, airships, and shells that tore through the landscape. No, the blood had all been burned away, leaving behind different horrors. Charred and blackened foliage. Remnants of titan weapons, empty metal husks like the abandoned exoskeleton of an insect. Ash—so much ash, illuminated by the still-glowing embers that created it. And everywhere, the smoking haze that hung over everything. 

Not for the last time was she struck by the bitter irony that for something so cataclysmic, the act of making war, at its core, was simple. Brutally so. It was the before and after of war that was complicated. But this—the fighting itself—took little thought. Kill or be killed. Defend what you care for. Stay alive. Reduce losses as much as possible. It was a to-do list. Eventually, the substance of the list would change as they exhausted their airships and artillery and changed to more direct combat. When that happened, the glowing embers of bombed ships would turn into the pooling blood of dying men. 

Life became a fevered dream of combat and strategy: wake, choke down food, issue orders from the command tent, send and receive reports from Alba Cavanich, and whenever infantry managed to break through, engage in hand-to-hand combat. Collapse into a dreamless sleep and repeat. As the weeks dragged on, the number of airships decreased. The casualties increased in equal measure. What had been a fight in the skies became a battleground as the two sides continued to wear each other down—neither able to gain ground but likewise refusing to yield it. And always, there were hundreds of men falling on either side, their last words echoing in curses, lost hopes, forsaken dreams, or the name of a child or lover. 

At this rate, no matter who won, the victory would be pyrrhic. But war always was.

* * *

Raqura frowned at the man kneeling—more like being forced to kneel—in front of her. She didn’t need to be told who he was. She recognized him from the wanted posters posted everywhere: Mor Ardain, Indol, Gormott, Leftheria, and even her own Fonsa Myma. Cor Baragh. His name carried a massive reward, prompting bounty hunters to run out in droves in hopes of catching him before the Ardainian Inquisitor. That he had managed to evade Mòrag, the Garfont Mercenaries, and dozens of independent hunters was something of an international mystery.

Normally, Raqura’s stomach would turn at the sight of him. She couldn’t even put into words the full extent of how much his crimes revolted her. But as he was now—with the fatigue of weeks of traveling pulling at his already gaunt face and ether-blocking handcuffs around his wrists and his Blade’s—he was no threat. He looked run-down.

The only thing preventing him from looking totally pathetic was the glimmer of his eyes. It was the look of a man unleashing a desperate gambit.

“Bennett, why are you stinking up my court with this filth?” she asked.

“Your Majesty, he claims he has information that could help Uraya win the war. Information about the Ardanach household,” her advisor explained.

“And what information is that?”

“We don’t know yet. He’s been very insistent that he would only speak with Your Majesty.”

“Why, then, are you wasting my time with some criminal’s baseless ramblings?” she demanded. “I have little time for this.”

“Well, if you please, Your Majesty, you know full well how messy the front has gotten. It’s been about nine weeks of combat. We’ve taken so many casualties already, and there’s been no progress into Ardainian territory. It’s a standstill out there, and it’s starting to get to the men. The guards who brought him in had already blabbed that this guy had a silver bullet for taking down the Ardainians. If we didn’t at least make it look like you granted him audience, we might have a riot on our hands.”

“So they’ve gotten worked up over a false hope, then.”

“Maybe. If you don’t want to talk to him, I’ll just take care of him.”

Something that could drop the Ardainians in a hurry? And this sleazebag was the source of that information? As far-fetched as it was, she couldn’t deny that she was curious.

“Fine. Cor Baragh, let’s hear what you have to say. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t ship you right back to Mor Ardain. We have an extradition agreement with them, after all.”

The man scowled. “Why should you honor that agreement? Mor Ardain isn’t exactly keen on returning the favor right now, eh? Now before I say a word, I want something in return. Bringing this information here put me at great personal risk. And he could still find me. So before I say anything, make it worth my while.”

“What exactly is it that you want?”

“Amnesty.”

She fought down the urge to laugh in his face. _Amnesty_ —as if he would find that anywhere. Only a foolish king would protect a man with his rap sheet. He’d be a threat to her citizenry, too. But she was under no obligation to meet his demands. And manipulation and deception—well, two could play at that game. 

“Fine. Now let’s hear it.”

The tale he told was too good to be true. And yet too awful to be true. But it did fill in some of the mental gaps she had. Her spies kept tabs on every nation’s leaders, and one thing she had never understood was why the Lady Mòrag had spent so much time at Gormott. The former crown princess was a peerless Driver; she ought to have served at the Imperial capitol from the moment she came of age. Stationing her at a subjugated province was a waste of talent. And yet her spies had never gotten close enough to the Imperial estate to find out more. This new revelation regarding her true connection to the Emperor explained that. 

If one assumed that Cor’s tale was correct, then his outrageous claim that his information could topple Mor Ardain wasn’t quite so far-fetched. It would be like taking the head off a snake.

But Raqura also felt a pang of conscience. As Uraya’s ruler, she wanted the Ardainian threat to be neutralized. But she believed that completely wiping Mor Ardain off the map was not the answer—although some of her council advocated that position. After all, Uraya’s economy and Mor Ardain’s were inextricably linked. Even in Elysium, Uraya relied on Mor Ardain’s industry for ruska flour and machinery like snake joint and rabbit diodes; in turn, Uraya traded ores like tricolor rock and mille-feuille along with fresh seafood from their ports. The war between them had already wreaked havoc on her economy. Fonsa Myma’s ports reeked of unsold fish, and flour was already requiring rationing. Surely the same ripples were being felt in Alba Cavanich, too. If one country blew the other away completely, that economic strain would last even longer—even the victors of a war felt the pain of its aftermath. 

So as Uraya’s ruler, the possibility of weakening Mor Ardain by exposing the truth of the Ardanach household...it was a tantalizing option. Without the Special Inquisitor, the Ardainian military might suffer from discord as aspiring generals made their bid for her position. And with the Emperor’s authority called into question, their governance would shatter, too. But that presented its own problem: with the Emperor unseated, the Senate would have emergency powers over the country. And recent events had put the radical Brionac party in charge of the legislature. Without the Gardic party and the throne to temper their impulses, Brionac might unleash the complete might of the Ardainian military. Then the war would get truly ugly. 

Those were her thoughts as a ruler. But as a person, as an individual, she liked the Ardanach household. Or at least its current members. She never got along with Emperor Nealon very well—life during his rule had been constant pins and needles—but Emperor Niall was everything his predecessor wasn’t. Until their current predicament, she had truly believed that his reign might mark the beginning of an amiable relationship between their countries. 

And there was always the possibility that Cor Baragh was just lying, fabricating an elaborate tale to save his own skin. He certainly had the intelligence to attempt it. But she had to know for sure.

“Bennett, get this scum out of my sight,” she said at last. “Take him to his new accommodations. I think he’ll find the corner cell is quite to his liking.”

“We had a deal! You swore you’d grant me amnesty!” Cor shouted, spit shooting from his mouth. 

“I swore nothing, Baragh. There was no binding agreement. And first I have to see if your information is worth a deal to begin with. Don’t fret, though. The cell is quite comfortable. I hear it has a nice view of the river.”

Cor was still shouting angry curses as he was dragged away from the hall. Raqura shook her head. 

“Your Majesty, what would you have me do?” Ingrid asked. 

Already, a plan of action bounced around in Raqura’s mind. The old traditions for settling armed conflict with as little bloodshed as possible...under ordinary circumstances, Mor Ardain would never agree, especially not with their superior firepower. One life to compensate for the loss of thousands and to prevent thousands more despite bloodlust on both sides—it was laughable, and yet it had worked in the past. But maybe, the Special Inquisitor could convince the Emperor to agree to it. She had to try.

“My lady?”

Raqura turned to her Blade. “Serve as my envoy to Mor Ardain’s command center right away. I want to talk to Special Inquisitor Mòrag personally.”

* * *

“Special Inquisitor, an Urayan envoy has arrived. She wishes to speak with you.”

Mòrag didn’t even look up from her work. This shipment of weapons needed to be inspected immediately so it could be distributed to the soldiers by nightfall. The general in charge of quality inspection had been wounded in yesterday’s skirmish, so the task fell to her (although Brighid had volunteered, only to be sent off to send a report to the capitol instead). An Urayan envoy would just have to wait.

“I’ve told Raqura a thousand times. Those demands will not be met,” she replied flatly.

“If I may, Inquisitor, I must advise that you speak to this envoy. I believe you’ll want to hear what she has to say.”

Only then did the word choice sink in: _she._ Until now, all of the envoys had been men, armed with a long list of demands, which they called “recommendations” on how to end the conflict. It had been utterly ridiculous. Not that all-male messengers were too surprising; Uraya’s military was almost exclusively men. Their ridiculously bulky armor almost ensured that women struggled to enlist. So for the messenger to be female…

“It’s Ingrid. Queen Raqura’s Blade.”

That explained a lot. 

“Fine,” Mòrag agreed. “Send her over here.”

Unaccompanied, Ingrid had an uncanny ability to seemingly materialize at her destination. Mòrag certainly didn’t hear her coming, but the Blade arrived quickly after the Ardainian solider departed. Almost too quickly. Ingrid gave her customary bow, which Mòrag returned, not bothering to exchange greetings. After all, if Ingrid was here, then the person really wanting to talk was Raqura. 

In a matter of seconds, a hologram of the Urayan queen materialized, as if Ingrid held an ethercom between her palms.

“Your Majesty,” Mòrag began, “you are the last person I expected to see today.”

“Lady Mòrag, I understand how busy you are, so I won’t waste your time. I wish to speak with you.”

“It’s a bit late for words, don’t you think?”

Raqura smiled politely. “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. I believe I’ve found a way for us to end this war as painlessly as possible.”

“Such as?”

“I will not discuss it here. Not where we can be overheard by prying ears. Come to Fonsa Myma to speak with me privately. I promise you safe passage. We will discuss it when you arrive.”

“And how do I know that this isn’t a thinly veiled attempt to kidnap me and use me for ransom against Mor Ardain?”

“I assure you it is not. If it eases your fears, I will even allow your Blade to accompany you. And a second Driver and Blade, if you choose. This is a peaceful meeting, I promise.”

“...Fine. I’ll hear your piece. But I have a condition.”

“Yes?”

“Both sides call a temporary ceasefire while we discuss whatever it is you hope to discuss. I won’t have your army trying anything funny while I’m away from my men.”

“I’ll give the order, provided you do the same.”

“I will see you in Fonsa Myma, then. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Mòrag was secretly grateful that Niall had not chosen to join the front line of combat as so many Emperors in the past did. Then she would have had to ask for his permission; and given his unusual concern for her safety as of late, she doubted he would agree. But he could not forbid her to go if she never bothered to ask. And something about Raqura’s expression during their brief exchange...Mòrag’s instincts told her that she needed to go to Fonsa Myma. She couldn’t explain it—Raqura’s invitation wasn’t exactly a compelling one—but something in her gut screamed that the trip was important. And if nothing else, a day or two’s ceasefire would give her soldiers some much-needed rest. Even if Raqura’s proposal amounted to nothing, that made the trip worth it.

So she put the arrangements in motion the second she returned to the command tent. Most of the commanding officers questioned why there would be a temporary halt to the hostilities, but like the dutiful soldiers they were, they obeyed their orders. 

Zeke, however, protested the idea of her going alone into enemy territory.

“What if they try to kill you? Or take you prisoner? I know your gut’s good, but something about this isn’t right.”

“I agree,” she said simply, tossing a few personal belongings into a satchel. With as late in the day as it was already, she would probably have to spend at least one night in Fonsa Myma. “But that’s exactly why I need to go.”

“I don’t like this, Mòrag.”

“If you’re so worried about it, come with me. Raqura said I can bring one Driver with me. Naturally, I planned on bringing you. You did promise to be a shield for my back, did you not? Then come. Between the four of us, Uraya would be hard pressed to manage any treachery.”

“Okay. But if they try anything funny, I’m going to electrocute everyone in the entire palace and get us the hell out of there.”

As soon as Mòrag was confident that the Ardainian forces were under control—and Pandoria finished packing, which took a surprisingly long time—they accompanied Ingrid back to her airship and departed for the Urayan capitol. The trip was uneventful, and mercifully, it went quickly; talking with Raqura’s Blade in earshot was uncomfortable. 

As they flew over the Urayan capitol, Mòrag found herself hoping that whatever harebrained scheme Raqura had would work; the new Fonsa Myma was incredibly fortified. The city looked much like it did on Elysium (not crash-landing on the new continent helped infrastructure), but thanks to new building materials, Uraya managed to reinforce much of it. Now the walls were thicker, the gates taller, the stone harder and more unyielding. Mor Ardain’s strongest airships would struggle to topple the stronghold if it ever came to a full-scale invasion. Alba Cavanich, on the other hand, would not fare as well as the Urayan capitol. 

By the time they arrived at the palace, it was too late for Mòrag to have an audience with the queen. So they were ushered into some guest apartments with a vague promise that “Raqura would see the Inquisitor first thing in the morning” and left to themselves for what little remained of the evening. 

Zeke made a quick sweep of their apartments and checked their Blades’ accommodations in the adjoining room “just to be on the safe side.” But once he was sure they were secure, he collapsed onto the bed with an exhausted exhale.

“It’s been ages since we slept in a proper bed,” he sighed. 

“I thought you liked being out on the field. You’ve always told me palace life was never your thing,” she teased. Deep down, she was glad for some more comfortable accommodations, too. 

“Heh, you know I can sleep anywhere. But a good pillow is a nice change from the cot we’ve dealt with for the past couple months.”

“You should be grateful you’re with me, you know. My station has its perks, and that cot is one of them. Most of the common soldiers are stuck with sleeping bags.”

He grinned and begrudgingly got back up to prepare for bed. Granted, it didn’t take him very long, and soon he was making himself comfortable again. By the time Mòrag had finished her own routine, relishing the chance to wash her face with warm water after so long, she half expected him to be asleep already. But he wasn’t. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling with one arm folded behind his head as if lost in thought. He hardly even seemed to notice when she climbed in beside him. 

“Thanks for coming with me,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. 

“Maybe I was just being paranoid. Doesn’t look like it was a trap after all.”

“Perhaps not. But if nothing else, I’m grateful for the company.”

“You’re welcome, then. Let’s get some sleep, shall we?”

After a gentle goodnight peck—they were so simple now, like the comfort of a routine—he turned out the lamp. Between the day’s stress, the lack of battle noises in the distance, and the warmth and softness of a proper mattress, Mòrag fell asleep quickly. 

When she woke, it was still dark. Grogginess still hung in her eyes; maybe not much time had passed? What then, had pulled her from her sleep? It wasn’t a nightmare. Those had been much fewer and farther apart lately. And then she realized: someone was whispering beside her. Zeke. But who was he talking to? She kept still and strained to listen for a second voice—maybe one of the Blades had slipped in with news from the Ardainian camp? Brighid _did_ have the remote ethercom. But no, there wasn’t a second voice. Just his. 

Curiosity got the better of her, and she didn’t turn around, clenching her eyes shut again. It almost sounded like he was talking to her.

“...It’s silly, really, talking like this,” he whispered. “But I’m kind of scared to say it to your face because I know you’re not there yet. And I don’t want to upset you, but I don’t know how much longer I can bottle it up inside.”

What could Zeke possibly be scared of? She forced herself to breathe deeply so he wouldn’t realize she was awake. She wanted him to keep talking.

“You’re absolutely incredible, Flames. I dunno know where to begin, honestly. You’re brave and resilient, and it inspires me to be a better man. ‘Cause compared to you, I don’t even measure up. Not even close. I know that deep down, you don’t think you’re worthy of love, but you’re wrong. You deserve everything. But here’s the thing: I’m scared that I’m not the kind of man you deserve. I’m just a wannabe prince who bummed around for over a decade after getting himself banished. Until recently, I’ve always run from my problems. But you’ve always faced yours head-on.”

His whispers faltered for a moment.

“I wish I could borrow some of your courage. Maybe then I could say this to you directly. Because I think I’ve fallen in love with you. And that scares me like nothing else because I’m not sure I’m worthy of loving you.” He hesitated again. “But I promise I’m going to try to be better. I want to be worthy of you. I’ll become the kind of man you deserve. And maybe when I am, I won’t be scared to tell you properly: I love you, Mòrag Ladair.”

 _H-he_ **_loves_ ** _me? But this is an arranged marriage. He’s not supposed to—he doesn’t have to—Architect, should I say something?_

Her panicked sensation left far sooner than she expected it to. Somehow, she’d been expecting this. But she couldn’t bring herself to say anything, either. And even if she wanted to, she never got the chance. With his piece spoken out to what he assumed were unconscious ears, Zeke laid back down and seemed to fall asleep easily.

_He’s lying. He doesn’t love you._

_No, he was telling the truth!_ Suddenly she felt sure of that. She wasn’t quite sure how the truth made her feel, but she knew the bitter voice was wrong. _He thought no one was listening. He wasn’t lying. Maybe...maybe it’s **you** who’s been lying all along. _

_Me?!? I’m just trying to protect us. Protect you! You need me._

_I-if what he’s saying is true, then I don’t need protecting. Not when I have a place to belong._

The voice had no response to that, which filled her with a sense of relief. It was the first time she’d ever contradicted that voice and not felt...hurt afterwards. Sleepiness crept back up on her, but before she drifted off again, she thought that maybe she finally understood what Nia had meant. Because this—this was peaceful. 

When morning came, however, she didn’t feel quite as peaceful. She woke before he did, which meant she had to lay there, staring at his face—he’d probably be embarrassed to know there was a little trickle of saliva on his chin—and wondering if she should say anything about his whispers when he woke up. And then there was this odd twist in the pit of her belly that she had no idea what to do with. When he finally did wake up with a murmured “morning, Flames” and a giant, overkill stretch, she decided not to say anything about it. He’d probably be embarrassed she heard. 

Given how she was feeling now, though, she doubted her ability to maintain a good poker face. So she got up. 

“My meeting with Raqura should be pretty soon. I’m going to get a shower.”

She walked to the bathroom and turned the knob to the hot water, hoping she could reassemble her professional persona in spite of what he said last night. She needed to focus. But when she turned to shut the door, she stopped short and looked back at him.

Zeke stood, making the bed—a habit she’d finally managed to engrain in him, apparently so deeply that he was doing it even as a guest. The bedspread wasn’t particularly heavy, but each tug of the covers made the muscles in his back flex. He moved to fix up the opposite side of the bed. The fragment of his core crystal caught a small beam of sunlight streaming through the window. It gleamed back at her, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard Pandoria’s voice cooing “my Prince” at him. 

An odd urge to pry the crystal from his chest surfaced, but she fought it down. That would probably kill him. And why did it matter that Pandoria’s mark lingered on him? Both the Blade and the prince had assured her that their relationship was familial, just platonic. But for some reason, the crystal looked like a brand—the Blade’s lifelong claim to her Driver. And Mòrag suddenly wanted it gone. 

_If you hate Pandoria’s mark so much, mark him yourself. Right on his neck where everyone can see._

The sheer possessiveness of the impulse startled her. She kept still.

“Mòrag? You okay?”

She nodded. “You need to shower, too, right?”

“Yeah. Don’t spend all the hot water. Uraya’s steam industry still isn’t as good as Mor Ardain’s,” he smirked.

She hesitated, debating whether she should voice the idea that just popped into her head. Surely it was a bad idea. But it had been weeks since they’d both had a proper, warm shower, and…

_Go on. Say it! You know you want to._

_Don’t you dare! This is stupid. You’re going to get yourself hurt again._

_But he said he loves me. He didn’t mean for me to hear it, but he said it._

_Those were just words. And the poor fool doesn’t know what he’s saying because you keep confusing him. This is only going to make him more confused._

_Or it could help._

_Ugh, you’re an idiot sometimes. Fine, do it. But don’t come crying to me when this ends in disaster._

“Um, you can join me, if you like,” Mòrag suggested weakly.

A pillow dropped from Zeke’s hands and bounced on the floor. His jaw seemed to drop just as far. “You mean, like, shower _with_ you?”

“Yes. Please don’t get the wrong idea. I’m still not quite ready for sex. But—” Architect, this was so embarrassing to say out loud, “b-but I think, maybe, I’m getting closer to the point where I might want to be ready to? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being stupid. But I think it, well, it could help me get to that point. Only if you’d like to, that is. If you’re not comfortable with it, I understand.”

Her voice was a pathetic, flustered whisper by the time she finished her explanation. But she’d managed to say it. And somehow, that felt like a little victory.

“Okay. I’ll be there in a second.”

Simultaneously relieved and nervous, she returned to the bathroom and shed her pajamas quickly. Somehow, the thought of undressing in front of him was more vulnerable than simply being naked when he walked in. She stepped into the shower; maybe the steam would mask some of the flush on her cheeks. Despite the preheated temperature, each water droplet felt like ice against her skin. She was being so odd today. Inviting him to bathe, simply on account of a little petty, unfounded jealousy of his _Blade_? Or was it because of what he said last night? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all...

But when he stepped in to join her under the stream of water, the world seemed to stop for a moment. They both stood, dumbfounded and dripping, politely trying not to stare, but neither quite able to resist stealing glances at the other’s form. 

_Ugh, would you just get on with it? Do it! You know you want to._

_Can’t you see she’s just toying with him? She likes dragging him along._

“Um, pass the shampoo, please,” she murmured, hoping a productive action might calm her down. The only thing worse than her own embarrassment was the two voices—or maybe it was urges—debating in her mind. Which was she supposed to listen to? Or was there a way to get both of them to shut up?

Zeke’s hand fumbled with the bottle, but he did as she asked. Once she got the soap she needed, she handed it back to him and set to work massaging her scalp, trying to fall into a rhythm. Zeke then took some for himself. Not watching what he was doing, he poured too much, only to run it through his fingers anyway, as if he wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. 

To her own surprise, she didn’t want to hide from his gaze. And yet, she was suddenly aware of all the scars lining her frame. Skincare had been the singular aspect of her own appearance she actually cared for. Her wrists were one thing; he’d seen those. The others, though...With a careful routine after Niall’s birth, she managed to fade most of the stretched skin on her stomach. But now, with Zeke’s eyes on her, it felt like the last traces of her pregnancy were burning and glowing on her skin. 

“I can wash your back for you. If you like,” he volunteered, the usual dramatism missing from his voice.

She turned around, half glad to shelter her stomach from view but half not wanting to be unable to see his. His touch—both with the sponge and his fingers—was gentle, soothing, and task-oriented, never dipping below her hips. She couldn’t decide if she wanted his hands to stray or not.

“You know, this reminds me of that time Tora tried to get you to bathe with us back at the hot springs.”

She groaned. “That was so embarrassing.”

“Definitely the most flustered I’ve ever seen you. You tried so hard to save face, but Tora was so clueless.”

“Do I really seem so...unfeminine?”

“No,” Zeke said quietly. “Honestly, I think looking back on it, that was the first time I ever even wondered what you looked like out of uniform. But if you’d told me then that we’d end up getting married, I would have laughed at you.”

“And now that you know what I look like, are you, um, disappointed?”

_Architect, I said that out loud. Why do I even care? What has gotten into me today?_

“Now, if Tora volunteered to wash your back for you, I’d probably dropkick him. Rex, too. There’s...there’s something about your back that just gets me, I guess.”

So Zeke had a little jealous streak, too. Now she was sure that the heat wasn’t just coming from the shower. But the warmth made her even more bashful. 

“Thanks to Nia, it’s one of the few parts of me that isn’t scarred. Because of her, the cuts from that Guldo didn’t scar.”

“I don’t mind your scars, you know. Not these.” His fingers brushed the scars on her left wrist. “Or these,” he whispered. His hand finally strayed from her back, tracing around her waist to find her stomach. He stroked one of the faint divots in the skin there. “To me, they’re just proof of how strong you are.”

The touch sent little shivers through the muscle beneath, but it wasn’t unpleasant, either. Quite the opposite, actually. She turned to face him. What was she supposed to say—that his scars surrounding Pandoria’s crystal made her so agitated that she crossed boundaries she never intended to? Or mention his confession? And these impulses—if she acted on them, would she regret it? 

“W-we should probably finish up. I shouldn’t keep Raqura waiting,” she said in a hurry. Now was _not_ the time for this. “Would you like me to return the favor?”

She gestured to the sponge in his hand. He took the cue and handed it over, taking his turn to face the wall while she scrubbed his back. While she did, he fell silent. Was he waiting for her to say something in return? Disappointed that she cut the moment short? Or just enjoying the same touches he’d given her? Regardless of the reason, he said nothing as she finished the task. Once the suds were gone, she let herself wrap her arms around him, inhaling the faint, fresh scent the soap left behind on his back. 

This was probably the most impulsive thing she’d done in over a decade. Sure, it was a bad idea, and perhaps terrible timing, but...for once, that was okay.

“Thank you for being patient with me,” she murmured. Her breath left goosebumps on his skin. “I’m still not quite there yet, but I...but this was nice.”

“Yeah...You’re right, though. You should probably get going. Raqura isn’t the most patient woman.”

As expected, reassembling her formal, “Special Inquisitor” persona was challenging. But by the time she pulled on the last piece of her uniform, she managed to dispel the last of her uncharacteristic feelings. But now she really hoped that Raqura’s proposal could work. Maybe if the war was over, she could come back and work through these confusing emotions without feeling guilty about neglecting her duties. It might be nice to finally figure it out.

Thankfully, she did not have to wait long. Ingrid came to fetch her shortly after they finished breakfast. It was to be a private audience, so Zeke and the Blades all stayed behind at the door to the throne room.

Mòrag took a quick inventory of the room’s occupants: no guards, just the queen and her Blade. Odd, but it made her feel a little better. She’d stashed a dagger in her blouse just to be safe. If things turned sour, she could hold off the Driver and Blade long enough for Zeke, Brighid, and Pandoria to force their way in. But then again: why so quiet? Where was Raqura’s usual pomp and circumstance? The courtiers? The advisors? The staff? The guards? Something didn’t feel right.

“Welcome, Lady Mòrag, and thank you for coming to meet me on such short notice. I trust you had a safe journey?”

“I did, thank you.”

“Oh, and I suppose congratulations are in order. I haven’t seen you since your wedding, so I never got the chance to extend my best wishes.”

“We can dispense with the pleasantries, Your Majesty. Why am I here?”

Raqura studied her carefully, as if the queen was still considering dropping an ether net over her. And the woman’s expression was _odd._ It hung somewhere between sympathy and pity, mixed with disdain. From what Mòrag knew of her, Raqura was a good ruler, despite her distrust of Ardainians. Raqura always did what she believed to be best for her people. Even if that placed them on opposite sides of an armed conflict, Mòrag could respect that sense of duty. 

For a lingering moment, Mòrag found herself wondering what life would have been like if she had been Empress, Raqura’s political peer. Would they still have butted heads? Or would she, like Niall, have found a way to pursue peace between their two nations? That seemed unlikely. But no, that did not matter now. Even without the crown, defending Mor Ardain remained her priority.

“...Our countries are on the verge of destroying each other. Thousands of lives have already been lost, and the death toll grows rapidly. This war, it needs to stop. And soon,” the queen explained.

“Then make this ceasefire permanent,” Mòrag said simply, knowing full well it was a pointless suggestion.

“Trying to write a haphazard peace agreement to end this war would be like putting a flimsy bandage on a bullet wound and hoping it will heal on its own. It would be foolish. One of our countries must subdue the other. It must end. But I am loathe to lose my entire army to do so. My country has too many widows as it is.”

“We’ve tried to bring you to the negotiating table. You refused. So why am I really here? Has Uraya had a change of heart?”

“Not exactly. I have a proposition for you to present to your ruler. One that could end this conflict quickly, and with minimal loss of life.”

“Unlikely. But let’s hear it.”

Raqura’s suggestion sounded like something from a storybook, but Mòrag did her the courtesy of listening to the end. According to the Urayan queen’s plan, each country would select a Driver from its army to act as its champion and representative. The champions would fight in a battle to the death, with their battle acting as a proxy for the bloodshed of a battlefield. Whichever country’s champion won would, in effect, win the war. The fallen’s would surrender. History books and legends detailed accounts of this very act; Coeia and Indol had utilized the method to resolve one of their own conflicts centuries ago, when the Titans were first beginning to show signs of decay. A few others did it, too.

But Raqura was a fool to think it could work now.

“Unthinkable,” Mòrag scoffed when Raqura finished her explanation. “Our military might is superior to yours. We will have victory. And you would ask us, the world’s strongest military state, to risk our victory on something as simple as a duel?”

“I understand that our army is smaller than yours. But as you’ve seen already, we have managed to cull your numbers quite effectively. Your army might be able to subdue mine, but at what cost? In your relentless attempts to prove your own military might, you’d be losing it with each soldier’s death. This could resolve the conflict without such wanton violence.”

“Be that as it may, the Senate would never agree to it.”

“But the idea might appeal to His Majesty. He could easily overrule them by decree, correct?”

“He could.”

“Then convince him, Special Inquisitor.”

“...No. I won’t ask him to further compromise his already precarious position with the Senate.”

Raqura gave a very heavy sigh. Her chin dropped to her chest. “I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” she whispered. “You will convince him to agree to this single combat resolution. You’ll convince him, or I will have no choice but to tell the world the truth about the Ardanach household.”

With a fire Blade constantly at her side, Mòrag was unaccustomed to the feeling of being cold, of a chill running down her spine. But in that moment, she fully understood what stories meant when they said that the hero’s “blood ran cold.” Her entire body responded to Raqura’s words. Goosebumps lined every inch of skin. And even though her heart was racing, desperately pumping blood at a frenzied pace, she couldn’t feel its heat. She forced back a shiver. Maybe Raqura was just grasping at straws? Hoping to get a reaction from her to verify unconfirmed suspicions?

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying, Your Majesty.”

“‘Your Majesty.’ Interesting word choice, Inquisitor. After all, by rights, that title should go to you as well. But to preserve your dignity, you abandoned it.”

_Hah. Do you see now? You told Zeke, and the secret’s getting out. Even Uraya knows now. The world is about to know what a coward you are._

Mòrag kept her mouth shut—she feared that if she loosened her tongue now, she would unleash a torrent of words that would get Mor Ardain into further trouble. 

“You can stop pretending, Lady Mòrag,” Raqura continued. “I know that any child you have in your present union won’t be your first. The current Emperor is your son, but the world believes him to be your brother. Quite the valuable bit of information, don’t you think? I do believe even your own countrymen would find it to be an interesting tale.”

“On what grounds are you basing these allegations, Your Majesty?” Mòrag asked. She silently prayed that the flinch in her voice wasn’t obvious to the other royal.

Raqura raised a questioning brow. “Judging by the expression on your face at the moment, they’re not allegations. They’re facts.”

“What’s your source? I demand you tell me!”

“Don’t get frantic, Special Inquisitor. My source’s identity is my concern. I’m under no obligation to tell you. I’m also under no obligation to keep this information secret. But if you were able to convince the Emperor to settle the conflict in a one-on-one combat, then I might agree to keep this information confidential.”

Shit. Backed into a corner. “So you’re blackmailing me, then.”

“Blackmail is such a harsh term. That implies that only one party benefits from the arrangement. But this method is in the best interests of both parties. Why settle this war over thousands of lives when we can use our two best fighters as scapegoats? We’d avoid the pointless loss of life.”

“Mor Ardain would never agree to such an arrangement. Not in normal circumstances.”

“But you have a very keen incentive to convince the little Emperor to go through with it anyway. And I’m confident you will. If not, then I’m afraid I may have to leverage the weight of the information I now know.”

“How _dare_ you, Raqura. You owe the Emperor your life! He threw himself in front of a live bomb to protect you. And you would repay him by threatening to take his throne? How could you?”

“I derive no joy from this either, Inquisitor. I am simply trying to protect the lives of my people. And you should know that some of my citizens believe that little stunt at Indol was staged. Personally, I have nothing against your son maintaining his status, regardless of his heritage. In fact, I think his rule indirectly benefits my own country. I would rather not force him off his throne. But if doing so could help protect my country...you of all people understand that duty.”

“I always thought so highly of you, Raqura. But this...I’m not sure this can be forgiven.”

“All is fair in love and war, unfortunately. I do what I must.”

“What would be the terms of the combat?”

“All combat ends on both sides once the duel is complete. If the Urayan champion wins, then Uraya will annex the demilitarized zone, and Mor Ardain will withdraw its borders back by ten titanpeds. If Mor Ardain is victorious, then Uraya will make the same concessions. Any further arrangements can be discussed at an official summit. Naturally, those arrangements would favor the victor, but negotiations would be made.”

“...Anything else?”

“Yes. The Ardainian champion...it has to be you, Lady Mòrag.”

Mòrag shook her head. _There_ was the other catch. She should have seen it coming. 

“Why me? If you want me dead, I’d prefer you say so directly.”

“This is not a personal vendetta, Lady Mòrag. It is simple necessity. The tradition of single combat to settle a war is an old one. Essentially, the combatants act as scapegoats for their respective armies, shouldering the aggression and violence that would otherwise claim hundreds, thousands of lives. But for the duel to be valid, each side must offer up a worthy adversary to serve as the scapegoat. My men are very angry. They want blood. For them to accept this measure, a suitable head must be won for them.”

“And you’ve deemed that mine will placate them.”

“No one else’s will. The sight of Mor Ardain’s Special Inquisitor falling in battle, and of the Jewel of Mor Ardain returning to her core crystal—that alone would sate their bloodlust.”

Mòrag clenched her fists behind her back, willing all of the tension in her body to manifest itself in her hands so Raqura could not see all the anger boiling inside her. 

“You’d best choose your champion wisely. That sight—you’re not going to witness it, Raqura. I’ve been a Driver for more than half my lifetime. Together, Brighid and I are unstoppable. And as you now know, I have faced dozens of hells and survived. Surviving this won’t be any different.”

“I always did appreciate that unflinching Ardainian confidence. I take it you’re agreeing to the arrangement, then?”

“You leave me little choice. I will present the proposal to His Majesty. I will have an answer for you in a week’s time. Is that satisfactory?”

Raqura nodded.

“...If the Emperor agrees, how can I be sure that Uraya will uphold the bargain? When I defeat your champion, how do I know the Urayan army won’t continue to fight anyway?”

“I give you my word that will not happen.”

“As if your word means anything to me,” Mòrag hissed. She didn’t even bother to mask her frustration now.

Raqura shrugged as if she’d expected that answer. She nodded to her Blade, who left and returned with a bedraggled prisoner in tow. “I can understand why my word might not be enough for you, given the circumstances. So as a show of good faith, allow me to send you back to the Empire with something your country misplaced. I believe you’ve been trying to apprehend Baragh for months now, correct?”

Mòrag almost didn’t recognize the man. When she first encountered him, he’d looked so defiant and full of energy. But now he seemed deflated, betrayed. If not for the atrocities he committed and the sheer hassle of trying (and failing) to apprehend him personally, she might have pitied him. 

“How did you get him?” she demanded.

“That’s not important,” Raqura said dismissively. “What matters is that our countries have a unique opportunity to end this war swiftly. I hope for your sake you can convince your Emperor to do so. Because if you don’t, I will do what I must.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had *that* scene written for at least a month now, so I'm glad to finally have it be part of the story. Morag breaking character to be impulsive gives me a strange sense of satisfaction. 
> 
> Still on track with NaNoWriMo word counts! Next chapter shouldn't be as long (although whenever I say that it drags itself out, so I shouldn't jinx it), so ideally, I can do another update this weekend. We'll see.


	20. Before I Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I hit the 25k word count mark for the month and we're not quite halfway through November (*throws confetti because 2020 is almost over*). 
> 
> Here's a chapter to celebrate.

“After I refused to let you handle the Aramach invasion, why on Elysium do you think I would agree to this?” Niall demanded.

There it was: the exact reaction she’d been expecting. Immediately after departing Uraya, Mòrag had issued strict orders to the generals at the base: no combat until further notice. Unlike many orders, those were met with cheers or sighs of relief. She doubted anyone would be disobeying them in her absence. And then she took an airship and rushed back to Alba Cavanich to discuss the matter in person with the Emperor. This was not a conversation to have over ethercom. Unsurprisingly, Niall did not take it well—at least, not the condition that his sister and Inquisitor would be the required Ardainian champion. 

“The Aramach situation was a trap set for me personally. I would have had no control over the ebb and flow of that battle. You didn’t want me to blindly waltz in there, and I respect that decision. But this—this isn’t a trap. How the battle fares is in my hands.”

“You would be in the same level of peril.”

“I am the strongest Driver in Mor Ardain. I can handle anything an enemy Driver throws at me.”

“But Mòrag, Raqura’s terms are clear. It’s a fight to the _death.”_

“You know I have no qualms about killing. I do not enjoy it, but I will do what I must. And I am more than willing to lay down my life for this country. I always have been.”

“...I’m not sure _I’m_ willing to lay down your life, Mòrag. Not like this.”

“You _must_ act like a king now, Your Majesty,” Mòrag said sternly. It came out harsher than she intended, but it needed to be said. “Think about this tactically. If Raqura allowed you to choose anyone to be the champion, would you agree to it?”

He gave a feeble nod.

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s an advantageous proposal. It would allow us to exponentially reduce the loss of life, limb, and property. And then we could transfer our soldiers to Crá Gleann and finish off that threat, too. All in a matter of weeks...And with reduced casualties, we could greatly increase our chances of establishing a lasting peace with Uraya, too.”

“You see? A single combat settlement is probably best for Mor Ardain, especially with our forces split. We should agree to it. And you cannot let your feelings for me get in the way of that. We are royals. This is our duty, Niall.”

“It feels like I’d be signing your death certificate.”

“I understand how hard of a choice this is,” she urged, toying with the thought of telling him the truth. If he understood the full gravity of the situation—why Raqura was practically forcing them to acquiesce—maybe then he would agree with it. But no. He needed a level head right now. “But it’s a choice you’ll have to make. You’re aware of the casualties we’ve incurred from my reports, but you haven’t seen the front yourself. I have. It’s brutal. There’s been very little progress on either side. Morale plummeted weeks ago. The sooner this can end, the better. I think we should take the offer.”

He nodded but frowned at the same time. Then she saw his eyes glaze over as they did so often when he devised a new plan or policy. He was looking for a loophole.

“Niall, do you trust me?”

“More than anyone. You know that.”

“Then trust me now. Let me end this war.”

“...As you wish. I will make the arrangements with Queen Raqura.”

She gave an approving nod. “And how would you like me to assist you in that effort?”

“...See to your physical well-being, sister. I don’t doubt that the stress of serving on the front for so long has been rather tiring. If I must send you into a fight to the death, I want you to be ready for it. Whatever you need to do to prepare, do so. Relax a little. Train with Brighid. Eat well. Sleep. Anything that will help you be in top fighting shape next week. Please.”

“I will.”

That promise, she could keep. And she had plenty of help from her friends; when Rex, Pyra, and the others staked out at Crá Gleann got word of the impending duel, they raced back to the capitol to be “the best damn moral support anyone could ask for,” as Rex put it. As a result, she never ran out of sparring partners—although Zeke seemed hesitant to join in. In fact, as soon as the arrangement was finalized with a date set for the following week, the Thunderbolt became unusually quiet and reserved. But Pandoria’s solo exuberance during training more than made up for his absence. So Mòrag had ample opportunity to refamiliarize herself with how to fight against nearly every element. But she favored sessions with Nia and Dromarch; her gut told her that Uraya’s champion would be Driver to a water Blade. What better way to prepare than by fighting two?

The training grounds would require repairs from steam damage, no doubt.

And so she walked that delicate line between training at maximum intensity and not overdoing it (although Brighid was the primary reason she avoided overexerting herself). All the while, she tried not to dwell on the thought that these days, these meals, could be the last ones. 

There were much grimmer affairs, too—getting the last of her affairs in order should the worst come to pass. She had a will, of course; members of the Ardainian royal family were required to write one the moment they came of age. She never bothered to update it. But with Niall as her only child (albeit unknowingly), it was a simple process. Brighid and Aegaeon would be returned to the Emperor; her other Blade cores would be donated to a local initiative striving to make Blade distribution more accessible to everyone, regardless of station. Maybe that way Blades like Yuzu and Umi could finally have the companionship they deserved. The office of Special Inquisitor, per her recommendation, would go to General Haig. 

She never saw much sense in collecting many belongings, so there was not much else to bequeath to anyone. The only material possession she really treasured now was her wedding ring. But when she tried to promise that Zeke could have it back if she died, he refused.

“I always meant for you to keep it, no matter what,” he said firmly. “And if they won’t bury you under a snowman, then at least this will let you take a little piece of Tantal into the great ether stream with you. You’re technically part of the Tantalese royal family, after all.”

And that was that.

* * *

What an error in judgment. 

Pachnall found it hard to restrain his anger. Offering asylum from the law usually turned criminals into the most loyal followers. After all, they typically owed him their lives. And with the addition of the prisoners from Phriosune, he had expected his mass of followers to be worked into an anti-Imperial frenzy. For the most part, it worked. Despite their hunger, a majority of the Aramach were eagerly awaiting their chance to get back at the country that imprisoned them. Some even admitted out loud that they would throw themselves on a live bomb if it meant they could get back at the Special Inquisitor. So his pawns didn’t seem to mind starving—although his most eager, slippery followers had managed to sneak out of the encampment just enough to steal some provisions from the Ardainians. It would be too little, too late in the long run, but it helped keep up morale. 

Cor Baragh, however, had been a miscalculation.

Never before had one of his assets broken out. Pachnall knew the man was the independent sort, but he didn’t expect him to be this much of a risk-taker. To abandon the relative autonomy of a world that welcomed criminals and try to make it on his own—it was foolhardy but brave. He almost admired the man’s courage. 

But now reports told him that Cor went to Uraya. And while Pachnall had no definitive evidence, he expected that his rogue operative was responsible for the pending resolution to that international conflict. All that hard work getting Mor Ardain and Uraya to rip each other apart, and now it might go to waste.

And worse, _she_ might get killed in the process.

If she survived, then he could return to the original plan. _That_ was a trap she wouldn’t, couldn’t resist. Without Birall, it would be much harder, but he had no other options. All that remained was to be patient and trust that she could survive tomorrow.

* * *

“You’ve come a long way, Rex. You’re not the child salvager I met in Torigoth, that’s for sure.”

Mòrag sheathed her whipswords and took a seat, downing several gulps of water from her canteen. In the interest of conserving the ether in the area, they’d fought without their Blades. And to preserve her strength, they kept the sparr short. 

“I’m still just stumbling my way forward,” Rex laughed. He plopped down across from her and mopped his forehead. “I’ve still got a long way to go before I measure up to you, though.”

“Nonsense. You’re the Driver of the Aegis. We stand as equals.”

“Pssh, if not for Mythra’s Foresight ability, you’d fight circles around me. You’re on a whole ‘nother level.”

“Fighting is a way of life for me, I suppose.”

“I almost feel badly for the bloke who has to fight you tomorrow.” Rex grinned. He’d grown a lot in the last year or so, but apparently the child-like optimism would always be a part of his personality. 

“Whoever he is, it would be unwise to underestimate him.”

“There’s no way he’s a match for you. I mean, Mòrag, think about it. Back when we were trying to get to Elysium, you were one of the strongest members of our team. But you were also the only ‘normal’ one.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Zeke’s a Blade Eater. I was one, too. Well, sorta. And Nia’s a Flesh Eater. We all had some sort of Blade-based advantage. But you—you’re just human. And yet you’re like, ultra-powerful. You made us look bad all the time. I don’t think a normal Driver and Blade team could really stand up to you.”

She returned his smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Rex. I hope you’re right.”

His mood visibly darkened. “...How are you holding up with all this?”

“With a job like mine, you get used to the feeling of being a few hours away from impending death. I’m all right.”

“Oh, come on. Gimme an honest answer.”

“I’m trying not to think about it too much, actually. Because when I do, my stomach feels like we just got launched off the world tree. I truly believe I can win, but...there are plenty of unknowns,” she admitted.

“Makes sense,” he sighed, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t want to pick a side in a war, but still. You _have_ to win. And my money’s on you, Flames.”

She playfully kicked his shin. “You’re not allowed to call me that.”

“Okay, okay. I guess it’s fair that Zeke has special privileges. Just do us proud out there tomorrow, alright?”

Most of the night’s conversations were a similar variation of that theme: an expression of concern for her life, good-luck wishes—but no goodbyes. Saying those would make the possibility too real. By the time she’d spoken with everyone that mattered—including receiving an awkward wing-hug from Tora (but given his height, it was more like a hug to her knees)—night had fallen. She made her way to her tent just outside the arena, unsure if she’d even be able to sleep. If nothing else, she could enjoy some much-needed silence. Even if Zeke was there, he’d been relatively quiet all week. Almost worryingly so.

However, she found Brighid waiting outside. Her flames cast an eerie glow across tomorrow’s battlefield.

“Another message from His Majesty regarding tomorrow?” Mòrag asked, trying to keep her voice casual. Not that it did any good to hide her emotions from her Blade.

“No. I’m here of my own volition. For you.”

“...I’m all right. Really.”

“And have you ever stopped to consider that _I_ might not be?” 

It was unusually harsh, even for Brighid...But Mòrag choked down a sudden feeling of guilt. She’d never stopped to consider how all this might affect her Blade. What sort of Driver assumed that her Blade was ready to return to her core crystal if the battle went poorly?

“I-I’m sorry, Brighid. I took your loyalty to me for granted. Forgive me.”

The Blade shook her head. “My apologies as well. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’ve just been doing far too much thinking today. You see...Lady Mòrag, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

“I’m really not in the mood to talk right now, Brighid. I’m not sure I can take another emotional conversation tonight.”

The Blade’s head fell. “I understand that. But I need to be honest with you. And...this could be one of our last conversations. I-if you die, if _we_ die tomorrow, well, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to die until I get something off my chest.”

The Driver’s eyes rolled dramatically. “Not you, too.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why does no one seem to believe I can win this? Everyone keeps talking like I’m doomed to die tomorrow. Except Rex. But he’s, well, Rex. I’m the Flamebringer. I can win. I have to. I wish people would have a little faith in me.”

“We do believe in you, Mòrag. It’s just that being forced to entertain the possibility of a world without you in it—that’s a frightening thought. For all of us.”

“I need at least one _realistic_ person to talk to me as if my victory is assured. Or at least possible. Please be that person for me, Brighid.”

“As you wish, then,” Brighid sighed. “But first, I really do need to tell you the truth—”

“No.” The Driver’s tone was firm, unyielding. “I’m not going to listen. Not now. Whatever it is that’s so important to say, you can tell me tomorrow after we’ve won. Alright?”

Brighid’s expression turned into something like a pout, but she nodded in agreement. “Goodnight, then.”

* * *

“I never did understand why your uniform doesn’t burn away when you fight.”

Mòrag turned around to see Zeke holding her jacket out so she could slip both arms into it. 

“You’ve been quiet all week, and _that’s_ what you finally choose to say?”

He shrugged. Even last night, when sleep evaded them both, he said very little. But just being with him in those last few hours was more soothing than all the “pep-talks” the day before. So she never pressed him for details as to why he’d been so taciturn. Was it simply that he was worried about her? Or something more than that? Granted, a fight like this ran counter to his ideals, but he usually spoke up about that sort of thing. For him to stay quiet was out of character.

“It’s fireproofed,” she said at last, deciding not to inquire about his mood. There wasn’t time for such a discussion now. She slipped into the outstretched sleeves and set to work buttoning the jacket.

“So that’s why the fabric is so stiff,” he observed.

She nodded. “After one unfortunate wardrobe mishap early in my career, I decided the discomfort was worth it. But I don’t notice it anymore.”

“Makes sense.”

Today, her belt armor felt abnormally heavy; her fingers fumbled with it. Without a word, Zeke took over, pulling the belt to just the right loop. Then came her pauldron; it was a complicated fastening of gears and straps that had taken her months to master when she first took the uniform. But he easily maneuvered the metal and leather as if it was his own.

“You’re surprisingly good at this.”

“It’s different than mine, but I do see you put it on every morning.” He faked a weak smile.

He noticed more than she gave him credit for. 

“What about your hat?” he asked, his voice just as quiet as before.

“I won’t wear it today. I can’t risk it falling off and distracting me.”

“I’ve seen you backflip with it on, though.”

“I secure it with pins. But I think it’s safe to say this fight will be more intense than usual.”

She bit her lip. What was the point of all this small talk? It felt childish to ignore the issue at hand—especially with only a few minutes left. But at the same time, she was grateful for it. She feared that talking about it would break her facade. And she needed to look calm and collected by the time she walked outside. If Niall saw her waver—she couldn’t bear the thought of what his face might look like. Still…

A loud gong sounded, signalling for the crowds to gather.

“Before I go out there, there’s something I have to ask,” Mòrag whispered.

“What’s that?”

“I...Back when we were in Uraya, the night before Raqura brought up this duel, I-I woke up in the middle of the night. You were talking, and I heard what you said.”

He hung his head, embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“But I did. About what you said, well, I have to know. Was it true? Did you really mean that?”

“Yeah. I get that it probably seems really sudden. But it’s the truth.”

It was her turn to look away. Now he’d admitted it not just once, but twice. So it was true after all.

“Then I need you to promise me something.”

“What?” He continued to stare down at the floor as if he dreaded her answer.

She bit her lip. “I-if something happens to me out there, if Brighid and I don’t make it, promise me you’ll be there for Niall. And make sure he resonates with both Brighid and Aegaeon again. I don’t want him to be alone.”

Zeke shook his head violently and gripped both of her hands in his. “No. I’m not going to promise that. I’m not going to waste my breath on a promise like that because you’re _not_ going to die. You’re the strongest Driver I know. You’re going to go out there and win. You’re gonna kick that guy’s arse and end this bloody war and come back to me.”

“Zeke, you know that anything can happen in a fight like this. I’m going to do my utmost, but there are no guarantees. One slip-up, and that’s it. So please: promise me you’ll look after him. I’ll fight better if I know for certain that he’ll be safe no matter what the outcome is.”

“...Okay. I will. Promise.”

She let go of his hands and pulled him in for a tight hug. He was probably trembling more than she was, but she didn’t care. Being in the arms of a man who loved her inexplicably, with no strings attached—it left the voice speechless. And it seemed that the tension in her body left her senses heightened. She wanted to savor it all: the tiny prickles of his stubble against her cheek, the softness of his travel-worn coat, the erratic rhythm of his breathing, even the scent of his cologne—some combination of bergamot, birch, and black plum, she realized. It all needed to be emblazoned on her memory.

_Architect, please don’t let this be the last one of these._

“Lady Mòrag. It’s time.” Brighid’s voice, an unwelcome but anticipated, inevitable interruption. 

Mòrag pulled away just enough to nod to her Blade. “I’ll be right there.”

The Blade left as silently as she’d entered; only the faint rustle of the tent flap betrayed the fact that she even departed.

One heavy sigh to steel her nerves. Another to convince herself that yes, she had to go. What a shame that here at what could be the end, she finally understood. There was so much left to say. Even if she still feared saying them, the words seemed to bounce around unvoiced in the empty silence between them. She hoped he could sense them. 

“One last kiss before I go. For good luck?” she whispered.

It was the fiercest kiss he’d ever given her, his lips firm and warm despite their trembling and the tear slipping down his cheek. His hands clenched around the collar of her uniform, as if he wanted to pull her in and keep her there permanently—not that she particularly wanted to go. She finally persuaded herself to pull her lips away, but still her forehead lingered against his. 

“Th-thank you, Zeke. Thank you for everything.”

Any longer and she wouldn’t be able to leave. She broke free at last and joined her Blade outside the tent. Her hand went to her mouth for a moment; if only her fingers could hold the last remnants of warmth there indefinitely.

“Mòrag, you—”

“Don’t. Not now,” she interrupted, banishing her hands to their customary position behind her back. “Let’s finish this.”

“Roger that, Lady Mòrag.”

Thankfully, her tent had been set up a short distance from the arena, so she didn’t have to spend long stewing in her thoughts as they walked.

From the moment the two nations’ sovereigns finalized the terms of the single combat, Mòrag knew she would be at a disadvantage: she didn’t know the identity of her opponent. Raqura never disclosed it. On one hand, that didn’t matter. Sometimes, when fighting a known, studied opponent, over-anticipating moves spelled trouble. And she fully anticipated that since only one Blade was permitted to each champion, Uraya would try to capitalize on her own weaknesses by choosing someone with a water affinity to face her. But at least that weakness would work both ways. And this certainly wouldn’t be the first time she overpowered an enemy she never faced before. 

Here, her years of hard work—sixteen grueling, heart-wrenching yet rewarding years—training as a Driver could pay off. Some criticized her as arrogant, but for her fighting skills, she felt she had the right to be. But her first look at her opponent made that confidence waver: Gunther, the Flamebane.

Therein lay the problem: Gunther was the only figure present inside the arena.

There was no else with him. And yet he held a Blade weapon: a thick greatsword, much like Rex’s and Zeke’s weapons, marked with a fierce serrated edge. The ether that rippled around him was distinctly aquatic. No surprise there, although the element did not suit his hulking frame. Mòrag never met the legendary Vandham in person, although she’d seen him from a distance (and reviewed photos of him collected by Ardainian intelligence). But Gunther reminded her of him: thick, jagged scars, including one on his right cheek and then dozens more that tore across his firm musculature. His wardrobe choice exuded an aura of confidence, too. Aside from his ardun leather greaves, cuisse, pauldron, and gauntlets, he left his skin entirely bare. He’d left her plenty of target space; a single well-placed strike would leave him with a skewered chest. 

At least, that would be true if he had a normal chest.

Instead, an eerie blue-red light shone from his core crystal. It swirled with intense energy and unknown potential. Something told Mòrag that he wasn’t one of the “failed experiments,” either. 

“He’s a Flesh Eater,” she murmured to Brighid. “I should have known.” 

“That can’t be right,” her Blade protested. “Uraya shouldn’t be allowed to use a Flesh Eater as their champion! The rules of engagement clearly state that each country can have one Driver and Blade team. And only one.”

Mòrag shook her head, half-admiring Raqura’s sly maneuver and half-hating it. “Raqura found a loophole and exploited it. One Driver and one Blade. You could argue that a Flesh Eater is both simultaneously. Well played, Raqura, well played. I should know by now not to underestimate her.”

“Then you don’t intend to contest his appointment as champion? What if this gives him an unfair advantage?”

“We’ve overcome Flesh Eaters before,” Mòrag said simply.

“I distinctly remember that one of those encounters ended with you being grabbed by the throat and tossed like a rag doll.”

Mòrag stifled a shudder at the memory. She hated moments like that most of all, where she came so close to protecting those she cared for, only to falter at the last second. But it wasn’t a fair comparison. That was multiple Flesh Eaters, Mikhail, and a menagerie of blade bots. Gunther was just one warrior. An immensely powerful one, perhaps, but a solitary fighter. That made all the difference, surely.

“He’ll be formidable, to be sure. But if I contested his appointment, it would reflect badly on the Empire. Not to mention I would be seen as a coward.”

“Formidable” was putting it mildly; deep down, she knew that. Flesh Eaters did not heal as quickly as Blades, but they still regenerated. Any wound she managed to inflict would vanish in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, she would continue to bleed from any she received. And Gunther could fight with abandon, never worrying about protecting his companion. Yes, he might be easier to surround. But a fight where he had nothing to lose except himself—in times like this, that was an advantage. She could die of blood loss. But Gunther had only one way of dying: a destroyed core crystal.

Worse, she knew nothing about his Flesh Eater talents. If he could alter the replication of her body’s cells like Nia, it would be a quick fight. And there were other, more terrifying possibilities. Back in Bana’s factory, there was that mysterious ether anomaly Patroka exhibited, as if she was on the verge of transforming into...something. Could this man transform into some sort of aquatic monster? 

Impressive bladework would not be the only thing to watch out for, it seemed. 

“What’s our strategy, then?”

“Simple. Focus on the one weak point. Let nothing distract you.”

“I wonder if it’s possible to immolate a core crystal. I’ve not tried,” Brighid mused.

“Well, you’re welcome to attempt it today.”

“...If he bests us, it has been my honor to serve you, Lady Mòrag. I hope you know that.”

“We will have victory. Failure is not an option.”

“Are you saying that for the Empire’s sake, Zeke’s, or your own?”

She gave a grim little smile. “...There is much I wish to protect. Now come. To the arena.”

The “arena” as she called it wasn’t exactly a coliseum, but it would suit its purposes just fine. Queen Raqura and Emperor Niall opted for an arena in the heart of the neutral territory, so a flat circle nearly a hundred peds in diameter had been roped off for the combat. To Mòrag’s relief, it was scorched, gravelly terrain. She couldn’t torch the area by accident. 

Naturally, a great host from each army came to watch this crucial duel. But they’d been forced to stand a fair distance away—collateral damage was not an option. As a result, only a select few individuals were granted the privilege of watching the combat up close. Nia and Dromarch stood close at hand to heal the winner once it ended. Pandoria squirmed beside her, tapping her foot nervously since her Driver had yet to show. Meanwhile, Rex and Mythra waited beside her, acting as a visual deterrent to treachery should either side attempt further combat after the duel ended. Originally, Rex loudly protested coming; he did not want to be used as a token for impartiality when a friend was fighting, turning his bias to one side. But with some prompting from Pyra and a direct request from each nation’s monarch, he agreed. Not to be excluded, Tora and Poppi tagged along (despite not receiving an invitation, no one turned them away). And naturally, Raqura and Niall joined, as did a member or two of their personal guards. A few spare Blades accompanied this entourage to project ether shields just in case any Arts bounced out of bounds.

A cheer went up from the Ardainian ranks when Mòrag and Brighid entered the arena. She gave them a polite but insincere wave—more for morale than anything else. 

The two combatants saluted and assumed their positions across the small battlefield.

She took a quick inventory of her form. Heartbeats—so many of them. Rapid breaths. A sudden build-up of sweat beneath her flame-resistant clothes. Tiny, barely perceptible muscle quivers. The urge to succumb to that panic.

In a moment of clarity, she heard her father’s whispers: _Still your breath, and the body will follow._ Old advice, but well worth following. Inhale, exhale. Feel the flow of Brighid’s ether, the fire of their link already burning. Much better.

Yes, a fire needed oxygen. 

“Let’s show him why they call you Flamebringer.”

Mòrag took one last glance at Niall, then at Zeke. Then she forced the world to melt away from her focus. Gunther. She was blind to all else now.

Whipswords in hand. Fighting stance.

“Combatants! Begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I've gone this entire fic without a nasty cliffhanger chapter ending. I had to do it at least once, guys. Sorry not sorry. 
> 
> Shorter chapter this go around because, well, combat is incoming. And writing combat scenes is hard for me. I want to give this next scene the attention it deserves. Because Morag is a beast on the battlefield, and I want to do her justice.


	21. Flamebringer & Flamebane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought about splitting this chapter into two since it’s nice and long, but...after last time’s cliffhanger, this is my penance. ;) 
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this and experimenting with some of the Flesh Eater/Driver combat aspects here. I hope you brought popcorn because (I think) I brought the drama.

“Radiance!”

Her Blade dashed forward with her as she cracked her whips along the ground. Shockwaves of flames shot out. Gunther jumped back. 

She snapped the whips back into swords, unperturbed by the fact that she hadn’t landed a strike. She’d caught him off guard, and that was what mattered most. Doubtless he’d studied her in advance of the duel—and anyone familiar with her normal combat techniques would expect her to default to the defensive. Now she just needed to keep him guessing.

_ I will not be underestimated. Not today.  _

Gunther retaliated with an Art of his own. A dozen tiny daggers of water zipped towards her. Brighid simply tossed up an ether shield and knocked them aside. After a few more long-range ether attacks, the three fighters drew close. 

The air rang with the sound of crossed swords. Sparks flew. Those who watched the duel later described it as a deadly dance—one that the Special Inquisitor and Lady Brighid led. The Driver and Blade fought in perfect sync, passing their weapons back and forth without a moment’s hesitation. And it was no surprise why: their entire bodies gleamed with the gold of their affinity link. One might even wonder if its brilliance alone could burn their opponent. 

Gunther was no pushover, for sure: each strike boasted incredible strength. Her arms screamed from exertion every time her crossed blades caught the brunt of an attack. But thanks to her own natural agility—and improved speed after a healthy number of spars with a man who more than deserved his “Thunderbolt” moniker—she rarely afforded him the opportunity. And as his frustration grew, his attacks became sloppier. Right where she wanted him. Her left whipsword shot forward in a long-range feint. In the time it took him to block it, she had rolled around to his side and sliced. The weapon found purchase in his abdomen, cutting deep enough to show muscle.

First blood. Good. But not good enough. Not when he would stop bleeding in a matter of minutes. And the sight of his own blood stirred up new energy inside him; his attacks grew fiercer. All conscious thought left Mòrag’s mind. Instinct alone dictated each strike. Each parry. Each Art. She was winning. She had to end it quickly before her own humanity could get in the way. Before he could—

She heard the rip of fabric and flesh before she felt it. Then the pain set in. Like stabs of ice from Jin. Blood dripped down her leg. She glanced at it—about three inches across, not too deep. But bleeding a lot thanks to its proximity to her femoral artery. Of all the places for him to damage first. 

“Brighid, sear that wound closed. First chance you have,” Mòrag panted. 

“Must I?” Of course Brighid would protest the command. 

“I could bleed out if you don’t. Do it!”

Her Blade circled around to her left side and tossed a giant fireball towards Gunther, forcing him to vault backwards by several peds. During that window of opportunity, Brighid set her hand on her Driver’s leg and dropped two small bursts of flame. Mòrag couldn’t fight back the gasp of pain. Even though she was well-accustomed to Brighid’s flames—so much so that she only felt the heat if she actually touched them—this intentional contact hurt, as if it was trying to burn even her bones. 

But it was better. No more blood drained from the wound, and now the pain was from the heat, not open skin. That sort of pain she could ignore. And the cut wasn’t deep too deep into muscle. The leg ached, but it was still usable. Now Brighid would just have to guard that side more carefully to compensate for her slight hobble. 

Now it was time to reward Gunther with more wounds of his own.

“Whip shield,” she said as quietly as possible.

Brighid didn’t need to be told twice; it was a technique she’d been looking forward to unveiling. In the week leading up to the fight, they’d brainstormed the new Art, tested it alone, attempted it in training, and perfected it in a spar against Nia and Dromarch. All they needed was for Gunther to throw another long range attack.

She jumped backwards once, twice. Dared him to throw more water daggers.

He obliged. Fool.

Brighid shot up her usual shield. But this shield was slightly different. Two small chinks lurked in the armor—two missing hexagons. One on the right and one on the left. Both intentional and large enough for two whips to slip through.

Gunther’s gaze was so trained on the follow-through of his last attack that he didn’t notice both whips hurtling towards him. They lashed around his waist. The Flesh Eater jumped back instinctively, but that only tightened the grip, deepened the hold. Mòrag channeled Brighid’s ether then. Flames sprinted along the whips until they reached her opponent. He squirmed and tried to break free, dousing himself with water to put out the flames. Steam boiled up into his face for his folly. Little blisters bubbled up on his cheeks and chin until the water overwhelmed the fire. Mòrag snapped her whips back and tried not to look too closely at the little chunks of flesh that clung to them. 

Out of her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of Brighid’s smirk. Developing new techniques together was always fun, but seeing them in action—nothing could replace the immense satisfaction her Blade drew from evolving and growing ever more deadly. It was a good attack, too. Its only true weakness was that a perceptive opponent could find the gaps in the hexagonal shield and counter through them. Maybe with enough practice, they could alternate which hexagons they left open. But that could come later.

_ While he’s vulnerable. _

With a mighty leap, she surged at him, pressing the attack. Every chance she got, she took a swing at his stomach. Brighid did the same with her flames. Gunther took three steps back, then a fourth. He was wavering. His ether-based attacks weakened, as if his body couldn’t simultaneously repair itself and unleash full-force Arts. 

“Flamebringer! Flamebringer! Flamebringer!” 

The chant reverberated through the Ardainian ranks, and for a moment, it seemed that the fight might be won. Brighid’s flames ate at his flesh again. Mòrag cut into his right arm, then his left leg. A double swing even broke through his ether shield. Now to move in for the kill.

Out of nowhere, a tidal wave of water knocked both Driver and Blade back several peds. Brighid shot a quick heat haze to dry herself off. But in the time it took her to do that, something...snapped within the Flesh Eater.

“TIme to show you the Flamebane,” he growled.

Through her resonance with Brighid, Mòrag could often detect ripples in the ether when another Driver used a Blade in battle. But in that moment, the ripple felt like a tsunami. Gunther crouched, pulling as much of his body in towards his core crystal as he could manage without sitting down. A cloud of red,  _ corrupt  _ energy—something about the ether just felt rotten, like it had been siphoned off a dead animal—swirled around him. He threw his head back. His mouth opened in a cry of pain, but no sound came out. 

And then all at once his body began to change. At first, it looked like he summoned a great orb of water to surround his torso. But that water began to morph and sway, taking a form of its own. A long, snake-like length of it broke off from the mass only to reattach itself beneath Gunther’s arm. Another did the same beneath his left. Then another, and another, until each arm had four tentacles of water sprouting under each arm. The tentacles, now in place, hardened into something that wasn’t quite ether or water. Not quite flesh, either. His skin stretched and pulled to cover the new limbs he generated. Stretched so far, the skin became almost translucent, revealing the intricate network of veins and muscle underneath. 

Mòrag shuddered. These new appendages reminded her of the final fight with Amalthus; each tentacle gleamed a pale blue. But Amalthus’s inhuman body had been generated from all the core crystals he annihilated; Gunther’s came from ether and his own body. Mòrag hoped that counted for something, because the tentacles were the end of the similarities between the two. Amalthus, though power-hungry, had remained sentient until the end—perhaps not entirely sane, but in complete control of his own actions. But the look in Gunther’s eyes now made him seem like a cornered animal, a grotesque man turned sea creature consumed by the intoxicating power of his own ether. 

“What the hell is that?” Mòrag whispered. 

Even if Brighid had an answer, she had no time to voice it. Both Gunther and his new limbs sprang into action. What once was a two-on-one battle now looked like two-on-nine. Mòrag and Brighid reverted to the defensive as tentacle after tentacle shot towards them. One from the front. Two from the side. Another looping around to their flank. And always, what was left of the man himself, coming at them with his weapon. Mòrag tossed one sword to her Blade. They stood back to back and batted away each attack. 

Too much was happening at once. And worse, the tentacles didn’t cut easily. Maybe ether reinforced them. The skin over them appeared paper-thin, but each time her sword made contact, it bounced away like she struck rock. Could they be weaker at the base? There had to be a way…

Water ether particles. Gunther’s body had changed, but his element had not.

“Surround us with a wall of flame! All sides,” Mòrag ordered.

“I’m otherwise engaged!”

“I’ll cover you. Just duck and do it!”

Brighid passed the sword back and crouched. Mòrag felt the ether surge as the Blade set to work. The Driver snapped both weapons into whips and swung them in wild circles overhead—a wild cyclone of silver sword and azure fire. Each revolution was perfectly timed to block the assault of tentacles from overhead. Meanwhile, Brighid’s flame circle rose from the ground. It grew in strength until it was thick enough to reach out and touch. 

One of Gunther’s tentacles made contact with the flaming wall. A loud hiss filled the air. The tentacle recoiled, steaming. One glance revealed that the burnt tentacle was visibly shorter than the rest now. And it showed no capacity to regenerate, either. Swords might not damage them, but intense fire certainly could. 

Mòrag didn’t even need to give her Blade a second command. Brighid unleashed the full force of her firepower. 

“Blue flames, immolate my foe!” she shouted.

Even those seated far beyond the arena itself felt the sheer heat thrown from that strike. The air was nothing but fire and steam for several seconds. But then a faint scent of burning flesh joined the steam; Brighid’s flames cut through Gunther’s own water barrier and now tore away at as many tentacles as she could reach. The appendages began to shrink like icicles in a spring thaw. Gradual, but constant. 

The Flesh Eater growled—a feral noise. For a second, Mòrag wondered if he could even return to his previous, tentacle-free form. Maybe this corrupted state was permanent. 

But his retaliation tore that curiosity from her consciousness. The Flesh Eater threw ether of his own. A huge wave of water hurtled towards Mòrag. It wasn’t enough to hurt her—or even force her more than three or four peds backwards—but it was sufficient to distract Brighid. Her flames flinched for a second. The tentacles pounced.

Mòrag flung one whipsword out to block his blow, but she was just out of reach. So she watched helplessly as two tentacles lashed around Brighid, pinning her arms to her side like a snake with its prey. Pulling her up, higher and higher. Higher than his limbs ought to be able to reach. And then they whipped her back down, tossing her to the ground. 

The impact would have snapped a human’s neck. But killing a Blade was much harder, Mòrag reminded herself. Brighid was still alive. Just unconscious. All she had to do was stay alive until her Blade woke back up. As long as Gunther didn’t soak her with water, Brighid would regenerate quickly. But seven tentacles and one sword was far too much to dodge on her own. When she brought her sword up to block one, another took its place. In another second or two she’d find herself picked up and thrown, too.

She saw it coming in her peripheral vision. Hurtling towards her faster than she could block. Instinctively, she threw her arms up so he couldn’t pin them down. Perhaps she could cut her way free from the snake-like grip. 

Pain exploded in her side as the strike hit home, knocking her off her feet. She rolled to soften the impact. Not that it reduced the pain—her side felt like she’d been thwacked with a Titan’s forefoot, not his limb. 

_ It’s a good thing I’m not pregnant yet, or that could have caused some serious damage.  _

No. No distractions now. He was still coming at her. 

_ Get up! Ignore the pain or you’ll be dead. _

She stuck her left whipsword into the ground and used it as a crutch to pull herself back to her feet. Now she had a broken rib or two and a bruised side to match her cut and burned leg. And still no Blade. 

Architect, there had to be a way out of this. But what was it? 

“Brighid!” 

It was a desperate cry—one that she never intended to make. But her subconscious forced it out anyway, as if it saw what was coming. Without Brighid’s shields, flames, and backup, she was at Gunther’s mercy.

Another tentacle hit the same, weakened side, flattening her. A third batted away her weapons like toys. The remaining four gripped at her arms and legs. They felt slimy, like they belonged to a sea monster from her nightmares. 

Pinned. 

Gunther’s humanoid hands brought his sword high.

There had to be something she could do. Dying wouldn’t be so bad, she decided. But to go like this was shameful. What was it Brighid and Mythra said to each other? “A Driver and Blade are one in body and soul.” Profound, really. And probably true. But a lot of good it did her now. Unconsciousness still had her Blade in its grip. And she was lying here, helpless, watching Gunther make one last lunge with her limbs pinned and his weapon careening towards her head. If only he wasn’t moving so slowly; at least, it seemed his figure inched forward at an agonizing pace. As always, the waiting was the hardest. 

_ This is it, isn’t it? I failed. Shit, shit, shit.  _

Once again, she faltered at the last second—let everyone down. Niall. Zeke. Brighid. Aegaeon. Rex. Pyra. Mythra. Nia. Dromarch. Tora. Poppi. Pandoria. Her countrymen. And dozens of Blades, including Theory, Herald, and oblivious little Finch. All those memories, all those people on the verge of being lost to eternity. Even Brighid might not be the same as Niall’s Blade. Thanks to her journals, she’d know who he really was, of course, but would the new Brighid tell him about his mother? Or would she defer to her previous self’s Driver? Maybe she should have told Brighid to write a cautionary note to her future selves. Architect, why did reincarnations have to be so complicated?

Only a few more inches before the blade found its mark in her neck.

_ A Driver and Blade are one in body and soul. One in body and soul. One.  _

Too bad “one in body” didn’t mean they had the same talents. Then she could summon an ether shield and deflect this blow. Buy time to break free...Wait. Why was it that Drivers couldn’t make shields on their own? Something about ether manifestation. The details of it were hazy; the fuzz of blood loss and exertion crowded in her mind. No shields for Drivers hardly seemed fair. But rules were rules. 

_ All life emits and absorbs ether energy. _

One of the first lessons Brighid taught her. But why was it coming back to her now? Blades used the crystals on their weapons to manifest ether energy, allowing the Driver to unleash Arts. But human bodies and Blade cores weren’t all that different, right? And if her body had latent ether energy coursing through it—why couldn’t she use that ether? Ether energy was tied to one’s life force; perhaps using it herself rather than letting Brighid channel it would have adverse effects on her life expectancy. But with a sword barreling towards her chest, it seemed worth the risk. 

_ One in body and soul. All life emits and absorbs ether.  _

_ I  _ **_refuse_ ** _ to die here.  _

_ As one. _

She tried her best to think of those moments when she was in perfect sync with her Blade—how it felt to be linked together, when their emotions rang in harmony. A lot of memories came to mind: the day Niall was born. Her commissioning ceremony as Special Inquisitor. The Emperor’s coronation. When the Blade bots pinned their party down and she broke free. The morning they escaped Spirit Crucible Elpys. The day they finally found Elysium. The final fight with Malos and Aion. The common denominator to all of those moments was Brighid’s loyalty through thick and thin, their unbreakable bond.  _ Recall how it felt—how she makes a shield! How she manipulates ether. Use your own energy! _

The sword was fractions of a ped away now. She clenched her eyes shut. 

But the strike never came. It bounced harmlessly to the side, deflected by a blue bubble of flaming ether that surrounded her. It did not have the defined, gleaming hexagons of a typical shield. No, this looked more ethereal, as if the waves cast by her flames had solidified into unbreakable azure glass. Gunther took two steps back, stunned. He glanced to Brighid—still out cold—then back at Mòrag. For a moment, the two opponents stared at each other, both equally shocked by what she’d managed. 

The crowd went completely silent, processing the technique they witnessed. Then the Ardainian host erupted in cheers all over again. 

Gunther’s tentacles pinning her to the ground had exploded in cloud-like bursts of vaporized water when the shield burst into being, so Mòrag managed to claw her way back into a crouched position. Fueled by the cries of her countrymen, she pushed more and more ether into the wall of flame she somehow created. It  _ ached _ —as if each particle of ether stabbed her as it left her body. But the flame-shield grew in intensity even as the Flesh Eater brought his sword down for a second strike. Steam hissed where the weapon made contact. More ether. More. Pretending her body was its own core crystal to channel the energy through. Maintaining the shield. The effort left her dizzy, but the steam from his sword vanished, replaced by a bright orange glow. Gunther’s weapon began to melt. His eyes widened in further shock, but he continued to press against her barrier, hoping it would yield. 

Then in the blink of an eye, the sword clattered to the ground, white-hot from hilt to tip. Gunther’s hands shone with raw, pink blisters. He scrambled away, trying and failing to summon water to cool the burns.

Right whipsword, then left. Armed again. Good. 

She forced herself to stand and ignored the way the ground lurched underfoot. This ether circulation...it wasn’t enough. She needed more. If she kept this up, she would exhaust the ether reserve her body had. Somehow she knew that. But drawing ether from the atmosphere—that she could not do consciously. Only Brighid could. 

Brighid. Her Blade still needed more time to regain consciousness. 

She lunged forward and grabbed Gunther’s fallen sword. The metal still felt scorching hot, but it did not burn her flame-resistant hands. With as mighty a heave as she could manage, she threw it. It clattered outside the arena boundaries. If Gunther went after it now, he would forfeit the fight.

He growled angrily and immediately put his hand to his core crystal. The blues and the reds inside the crystal congealed, pushing out the hilt of another weapon. Of course he could generate another from his own core. It was stupid to ignore that possibility. Instinct took over. Her whipswords seemed to move on their own, lashing forward. Each extended blade lassoed around one of Gunther’s hands and ensnared each wrist. Then both pulled tight. The steel and fire gleamed in unison. A slick, sickening slice. His hands fell to the ground. Before what she was doing could register in her mind, she used the last droplets of ether in the crystals on each sword to immolate each one. Now he couldn’t simply reattach them. He’d have to wait for them to grow back.

That should buy enough time.

And it did. Gunther’s agonized howl alone pulled Brighid from her stupor. The Blade shot to her feet, horrified. Her eyes darted back and forth from her Driver and the now-handless Gunther, who had a half-generated sword hilt still stuck in his core crystal. The sight didn’t reassure her at all; her Driver looked just as battle-worn as the Flesh Eater—on the verge of collapse, really. She was hunched over, breathing too fast even for combat, wincing with each inhale. And somehow, fragments of her fireproof uniform were melted or missing. But where had she gotten the fire? Surely there wasn’t enough ether reserved in the sword crystals to unleash that much firepower. 

Brighid shot to Mòrag’s side in an instant. She rested a gentle hand on the woman’s back, hoping the warmth would be soothing, reassuring, empowering. But the touch felt wrong. Mòrag’s person seemed... _ hollow,  _ like part of her was missing, sucked away.

“Mòrag, what the hell did you do?” she asked. Gunther’s continued screams nearly overpowered her voice. 

“Not now. We have to...finish this,” Mòrag wheezed. “Fast. I’m nearly...at my limit.”

Mòrag handed one whipsword to her blade and gave the one in her right hand a quick snap, unfurling it into whip form. It quivered in her grip. All she needed to do was nod; Brighid read the rest of her plan in her eyes. Their affinity link reappeared, set alight by energy as Brighid pumped ether through it. One Soulfire. One last Art. A gambit.

Two whips snapped forward. The silver-blue weapons snaked their way across the battlefield, dodging Gunther’s stubs. Each tip wrapped around the hilt of the sword stuck in Gunther’s chest, clinging to it like an extension of the Driver’s and Blade’s bodies. In unison, the whips snapped back. Their grips on the hilt held firm, pulling both sword and crystal with it.

Tendrils of water slipped out of the core crystal, as if the stone itself made a desperate attempt to pry itself free from the whips trying to rip it away from its home. 

“More fire, Brighid!”

Flames licked along the unfurled whips, dispelling the watery tendrils and eating away at the flesh that tethered the core crystal to its host. 

With a chilling tear, the incomplete Blade weapon ripped away from the Flesh Eater’s body, taking the core with it. Whips retracted in perfect unison. 

Then a lot of things happened at once. The Ardainians and Urayans alike shouted, gasped, stopped short. Those looking on at the edge of the arena all jumped to their feet for a better look. Gunther cursed loudly, collapsing to his knees as he stared at the small gap in his chest. Mòrag untangled the weapon hilt from her own whipsword and grasped the now-dismembered core crystal in her hand. She swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat; somehow it seemed like she was holding a pounding heart in her hand. Even now, the last remnants of ether pulsed through it like a heartbeat. Could a Blade remanifest around a crystal if it was ripped from its chest? Maybe it was only possible with Flesh Eaters? No one had ever attempted this before. The thought that Gunther’s body might vanish and then suddenly start regrowing around the crystal in her fist made her shudder. No use risking it.

She grabbed the hilt of Gunther’s incomplete sword in her right hand, the crystal in her left. Pulled with all her might. Meanwhile Brighid enveloped it all in flames, hoping the heat would weaken the material. 

The sound of shattering glass.

Gunther’s cries cut short. 

The crystal and weapon in Mòrag’s hands crumbled—fell like dust into the ground beneath her. 

The Flesh Eater’s body crumpled, now a useless, etherless husk. 

And then cheers erupted all over again. A short distance away, the sky rained Ardainian banners; no one needed to pronounce the outcome. Even the Urayans began to clap politely out of respect and admiration. Whispers about the sheer impossibility of what was just witnessed ran throughout the entire assembly. No one had ever seen such an arresting display of skill, ingenuity, and Driver-Blade affinity. And perhaps a bit of dumb luck.

“It’s done. We ended the war,” Mòrag sighed, her tone breathy and disbelieving.

Brighid grinned and pulled her Driver into a tight hug, for once unperturbed by a public display of affection. “I’m sorry I was so unconscious for so long. I left you vulnerable.”

“Not your fault. I managed.”

“To pull that off despite my being out of commission...you’re a legend in your own right, Lady Mòrag.”

“We—we did it.”

“No, Mòrag.  _ You  _ did it.”

But her Driver didn’t hear her last statement; the Special Inquisitor went limp in her Blade’s arms. With the adrenaline gone, the strain of the battle finally caught up to her, and she collapsed.

* * *

“There we go. She’s starting to come around.”

Nia’s voice, surrounded by the hum of several other familiar voices. She could feel Brighid’s heat to her left. That warmth was complemented by a sensation like cool water that rushed up and down her leg, pulling away the pain in a soothing current. But everything still felt hazy, like there was a Cloud Sea between them and her. The water seemed to move to her temples—one little fountain on each side. It pushed away the haze.

She immediately wished she could drop back into the cloudiness. At full awareness, she realized how badly everything ached, like Mor Ardain had clenched her in its fist. Clearly Nia hadn’t finished. 

“I feel like a Titan weapon ran me over,” she groaned.

“One practically did,” Brighid laughed. Judging by her tone and the way her flaming hair flickered, the Blade was already back at full strength. Unfair. “Well done, Lady Mòrag.”

“Well done? That’s all you have to say, Brighid?” Mythra scoffed. “That was some incredible skill she showed. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been around for a few centuries. So go ahead and lay the praise on thick. We all know you want to.”

“Yeah. Did you see what she did? She made a freaking ether shield  _ on her own! _ ” Rex shouted. “Drivers aren’t supposed to be able to do that! What the hell? Bloody awesome! Mòrag, you have  _ got  _ to teach me how to do that!”

“She’s not going to be teaching that to anyone, bullet brain,” Nia said firmly. “Because it was a bloody idiotic thing to do. She’s lucky she didn’t kill herself in the process. Honestly, Mòrag. Using your body’s ether supply—just how foolish can you get?”

“I didn’t think it would work. But I was desperate.” Mòrag attempted to sit up and was rewarded with a sharp stab in her side. “I take it you haven’t healed my ribs yet.”

“Of course not, arsehole. I was too busy trying to keep your digestive organs from shutting down!”

“What?” Several of the tent’s occupants chorused. The external damage to her body hadn’t been too extensive, so the idea that their companion’s internal systems were shutting down was shocking.

“Ether loss is a lot like blood loss: lose too much and your body starts to shut down,” Nia explained. “It’s not normally supposed to happen in humans, at least not in a self-inflicted way. But Mòrag, true to her near superhuman self, found a way. Now shut up and let me finish.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Shut it, you.”

“Nia, chill out. Talking won’t kill her,” Rex pointed out.

“Of course not. But your idiocy might kill  _ me.  _ I’m trying to make it so it won’t take Mòrag three weeks to recover from this, so let me work in peace.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Mòrag murmured.

“Just like with blood loss, I can restore some of your ether energy levels for you, almost like a blood transfusion. But it’s not going to make you go magically back to normal in a split-second, either. Losing that much ether puts a big strain on your body’s cells. Healing from that strain will take some time, even with my help. So you’ll need to rest  _ properly _ .”

For once, Mòrag didn’t want to protest that admonition. As Rex would say, she felt “all out of juice.” At least now the pain was all but gone—even her ribs were whole again, allowing her to sit upright at last. 

“How long has it been since the fight?” she asked. From the moment Brighid embraced her after the fight to the minute she awoke here in the tent, she couldn’t recall a thing.

“An hour or so.”

“I should go out there. The soldiers need to see that I’m all right.”

Nia hissed. “Not now, you don’t. Unless you want them to see you collapse again, because I’m not done yet. Oi, Pyra. Can you get her some food? That’ll help get her strength up.”

“You bet! I’ve always wanted to try making quoteletta, anyway.”

“Not  _ you,  _ Mythra.”

“Why not? Even I cook better than most Ardainians. She’ll probably think it’s perfect,” the blond Aegis retorted. 

“But it’ll take too much energy to chew if you burn it,” Rex shot back.

“Charcoal’s good for you.”

“Just go, you idiots!” Nia scolded again. 

With Rex and Mythra traipsing off to get a decent meal, the tent quieted instantly. For a moment, the only noise was the sound of soldiers chatting outside. And of Rex still gawking over the azure ether shield phenomenon. 

“Where’s Zeke?” Mòrag asked after a brief silence. 

“He helped carry you in here,” Brighid explained. “And once he knew that you’d be alright, he went to help guard His Majesty. It appears that Uraya will abide by the terms of the agreement, but we can’t be too careful while there are still forces in the area. Would you like me to fetch him? I could guard the Emperor in his stead.”

“Please do so. But not quite yet,” Mòrag said, stifling a shiver. “I feel awfully cold. Your infrared radiation is appreciated at the moment.”

“You’re cold because your body can’t regulate its own internal temperature without  _ ether,  _ dimwit,” Nia interjected.

“I get the point. My actions endangered my health. You can stop scolding me. I won’t do it again.”

Nia made a sound like an approving little purr. “Good. Do you feel strong enough to lean forward and scoot up a bit? It’s time to fix some of that ether loss.”

Mòrag nodded and did as she was instructed. The Gormotti clambered onto the cot behind her and put both hands on the Driver’s back—one at the top of her spine and the other at the bottom. Her spine tingled as ether energy coursed through it, like water cascading down a cliff. And as the ether continued to flow into her back, Mòrag felt some of her strength returning. Her bones seemed to unfreeze, too.

“The ether circulates best from the spine. Something about the nervous system, I think,” Nia murmured. Then she paused. “Sorry I chewed you out. It’s just that, well, Elsie died from ether deficiency syndrome. Hers was from an illness, but seeing you like that stirred up some bad memories.”

“I understand. It was rather reckless of me. It seems I owe you one again, though.”

Nia gave a brief little laugh and then fell silent again.

“...Are you all right?” Mòrag asked quietly. “Seeing someone like yourself fall—that can’t be easy.”

The Flesh Eater spat. “I’ve met Gunther once before, and I say it’s good riddance. He wasn’t like me at all. Not like Patroka, Akhos, or Jin, either. Torna messed a lot of things up, but we all did right by our Drivers. We didn’t kill them ourselves. I think that was the only reason we could stomach the stuff we did to people. But Gunther was one of those Eaters who willingly killed his Driver. The rumor was that he and his Driver agreed to do it just to gain more power, but still. Gunther killed him. Only a complete bastard would do that. So don’t think I resent you for killing another Flesh Eater, or anything. He had it coming. Besides, for me it was more important that my friend lived.”

“But if I hadn’t ripped out his core crystal and just incapacitated him instead—Uraya might have agreed to that—you might have been able to save him,” Mòrag pointed out. 

“Queen Raqura might have agreed to an end like that, but something tells me Gunther wouldn’t have. It’s probably better this way. You were doing your job. Uraya called for a fight to the death, and you abided by the rules. So don’t sweat it.”

“...All right.” 

At that moment, Rex and Pyra came tumbling back in, food in hand (thankfully without any charcoal). Tora and Poppi trailed behind them, contributing to the chaos as they so often did. Mòrag ate and listened to them as they recounted the fight from their vantage point. Rex already managed to exaggerate the tale, which resulted in a mildly passionate debate about what really happened. Poppi settled that argument, thanks to her newest audiovisual recording and transmission mode Tora designed. Her eyes glazed over and became lenses, replaying moving holograms deep in the throes of the fight. Rex giddily gawked again at Mòrag’s ether shield, demanding that the Artificial Blade replay it over and over again. She wondered if he would ever shut up about it. Clearly the story made Brighid uncomfortable; she squirmed every time she saw the visual of her Driver fighting alone.

Once Mòrag finished eating, Nia banished everyone from the room except the Blade and ordered the victor to take a nap. Mòrag didn’t protest for long. Although Nia’s healing and ether restoration had done wonders for her energy levels, it couldn’t abolish her exhaustion completely. Between the incoming food coma and the post-adrenaline crash, she was struggling to form coherent sentences. Her head touched the pillow, and a second later, she was asleep.

* * *

She awoke to that groggy, disoriented sensation that often accompanied a nap. The shadows in the room all looked different, and the noise outside the tent had all but quieted. But now there was only one other person in the tent with her. That explained why it felt so peaceful.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Zeke’s voice. But it sounded tired, annoyed. 

She gave a small smile as she sat up. “Looks like you were right. I came back after all.”

“Yeah.” Another weak response.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“The duel was yesterday. It’s nearly lunchtime now. So about sixteen hours, I think. If not for Nia, I would have worried that you might not wake up.”

Normally, she’d feel guilty for sleeping in so long. But after collapsing in front of everyone, she probably needed it. At least now the adverse effects of what Nia called “ether deficiency syndrome” were mostly gone. Zeke, however, looked like he’d lost those sixteen hours of rest. He was hunched over, blankly staring at the wall of the tent. He twiddled a little turtle carving in his right hand.

Oh. So he found it after all. With all of the activity in the day leading up to the duel, she never found the right moment to give it to him, so she’d slipped it into his knapsack and hoped he would see it. 

“I see you found the turtle I made for you.”

“What was this supposed to be, something for me to remember you by if you didn’t make it?”

“Not necessarily. I just meant it as a silly little gift, really.”

“A wooden turtle. That’s all I would have had left of you. How is that fair?”

She stopped short, unsure how to respond to that. She had expected a lot of different reactions to the fight, but this one...She thought he’d be more relieved than anyone. But he sounded disappointed, angry even. 

“It doesn’t really matter. I survived. I won.”

“But it  _ does  _ matter, Mòrag. Or did you never bother to think how I would feel if you died out there?”

“We should be celebrating that I won. That the war’s _ over.  _ Why are you being like this?” Mòrag demanded.

“Because you bloody nearly died out there, Mòrag! And most guys don’t like it when their wives get themselves killed, especially in a fight that they shouldn’t have been in to begin with!”

There it was—the edge of that temper he struggled to keep in check. 

“Oh, you think you should have done it instead? Uraya was very specific. It had to be me. It was a risk I had to take for Mor Ardain. For Niall.”

“It wasn’t a risk I wanted you to take.”

“I’m sorry,” Mòrag retorted. Now her own tone completely lost its guarded facade, her volume creeping up. “I wasn’t aware I had to ask for my husband’s permission to do my duty to my country! You forget that first and foremost, I belong to Mor Ardain, not you. If I’m not mistaken, at our wedding, we vowed that each of us would remain free people, both belonging to our respective countries. Or did you not mean that part of our vows?”

“I didn’t mean that you needed to ask my permission. But Architect, Mòrag. Why didn’t you at least consult me about it?”

“It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“But I would have liked to have been part of the conversation! Do you even give a damn about my opinion?”

“I know how you feel about killing, especially in circumstances like this. I didn’t bring it up because I knew we’d just have a pointless argument about it. I was trying to be respectful to your views!”

“Respectful? By not even talking it over? Do you even hear yourself? How is it respectful to  _ ignore  _ my feelings about this? Not everyone can just bury their emotions like you can. Some of us actually have to do the healthy thing and talk about them!”

“You did  _ not  _ just say that.”

If the fire in her eyes and her tone rattled him, he didn’t show it. He kept talking. “You know how I feel about you, Mòrag. So how could you knowingly put your life on the line with absolutely no regard for my feelings? That’s unfair to me, and you know it.”

“It’s my life, Zeke. If I want to put it on the line for my country, then that's my prerogative. Not yours. If you really love me, then you should respect that!”

His volume fell and he stared at his shoes. Something about the way he murmured his next words made her shudder. “Yes, it’s your life. But when are you going to let me be a part of it?”

“You already are. We’re married, for Architect’s sake.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, from a legal standpoint. But you don’t always treat me like your husband.”

“Yes, I do. Or do you think I kiss other men regularly? Just invite random friends to bathe with me?”

“Of course not. But that’s not the point, Mòrag. This isn’t about physical intimacy. It’s about your attitude towards me. You keep going back and forth. One day you trust me, and the next you don’t. When are you going to actually accept me? When are you going to act like you trust me day in and day out?”

“I do trust you. I would never have told you the truth if I didn’t.”

“But you still hold me at arm’s length. Sure, there are times when I think you might be getting better. Like when you asked me to shower with you back when we visited Uraya. I thought that you might finally be starting to really, truly trust me. But then you go and agree to this violent shit without even bothering to ask me how I felt about it!”

“I’m sorry, all right? I should have talked to you about it. It was insensitive not to. But I’m not holding you at arm’s length.”

“Then prove it. Tell me you love me. Don’t just try to show me with a little kiss or a hug.  _ Tell  _ me.”

Her face blanched. “What?”

“If you’re truly not pushing me away, then prove it by telling me how you really feel. You’ve never actually told me outright.”

“You know that you mean a lot to me—”

“For once in your life, say it bluntly,” he interrupted. “No beating around the bush like a politician. Do you love me or not? Even if it’s only a tiny bit, the dullest, faintest spark of affection, come out and say it. Don’t give me this guarded crap that makes me  _ wonder _ , Mòrag.”

_ Don’t say something you’ll regret! You know this can’t end well.  _

“I-you...ugh,” she stammered, unable to look him in the eyes. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t? It’s three or four simple words: ‘I love you’ or ‘I don’t love you.’ For the love of the Architect, just say them.”

“Those words are really hard for me. I-I’m scared to say them,” she admitted. “You see, I...I said them to Pachnall years ago. I realize now how foolish and stupid that was. But I was just a girl. I simply meant that I loved him like a father. That wasn’t how he interpreted it. The day I said it...that night he started taking what he wanted.”

“So it all boils down to him. Again. I should have known,” Zeke muttered.

“Surely you understand.”

“...No. I don’t. I don’t understand how a woman who’s brave enough to attempt single combat to the death can’t bring herself to admit how she feels. Damn your past, Mòrag. Quit being a coward about it and move on.”

“How  _ dare _ you! You have no idea what it was like. He abused me night after night. I nearly killed myself because of what he did. I lost my birthright because the child he forced on me ended up being a boy. And you just expect me to act like that never happened?”

“And you have no idea what it feels like to have the woman you love  _ refuse _ to trust you,” he whispered. “Mòrag, when are you going to get it into your head that I’m not him? I know how badly he hurt you. I get it. And I’ve tried to be respectful of that. But at some point, you’re just going to have to accept the fact that I’m not going to hurt you like he did.”

“Feelings are really hard for me, but I’m trying to do better. Why isn’t that good enough for you?”

“When does it get to be about  _ my _ feelings, Mòrag?” His voice broke, and tears lingered on the edge of his words. The air rang with the sound of that last demand. “...I-I really want this relationship to work. But it feels like you’re constantly comparing me to him, and I hate it. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing this back and forth stuff. Especially not if you’re going to keep throwing yourself into life-or-death situations with no regard for how it affects me. When he had you pinned, when he nearly killed you...you have no idea how terrified I was. I-I never want to feel like that again. I...look, if you want this to stay a completely professional relationship, if you want our marriage to stay political, then fine. Tell me as much, and I’ll find a way to get over you. I’d obviously love for it to be more than that, though. But this halfway shit where you make it seem like you kinda care only to hold me at arm’s length the next day—I can’t keep doing it. You need to make up your mind.”

His tears started to surface then, and he stood and slipped out of the tent. Little did he know that after he left, Mòrag collapsed back onto her little cot and cried, too. They were tears of anger, sadness, guilt, fear, and most surprisingly, disappointment that he was upset with her. 

_ He’s right to be mad at you. You’re pathetic. You’re a coward, and now he sees that.  _

She wanted to say something back, but her mind wouldn’t form a coherent rebuttal. The voice was wrong; it had to be. But she couldn’t explain why. 

How long had it been since she cried like this? She couldn’t recall. Years, maybe. Even as the tears kept welling up, she felt childish. And yet mature at the same time. Surely crying wasn’t doing any good. This was just the strain of two very draining days. Maybe she hadn’t finished recovering from the ether deficiency.

“Mòrag? What’s wrong?”

Her eyes were blurred with tears, but the purplish-blue haze she saw told her that this was someone safe to cry around. “We—I—he—” 

A hiccup cut her sentence off. Warmth enveloped her as her Blade pulled her into a seated position and wrapped two comforting crystalline arms around her. And then Brighid waited, ever patient, until her tears had slowed to a gentle trickle.

“Tell me what happened.”

Mòrag tried not to tremble as the Blade listened attentively to her halting, sniffle-ridden explanation. By the time she’d finished, the worst of her sobs had quieted. With the tears drying, it struck her that she felt a little better. 

“I’ve ruined everything, Brighid. Haven’t I?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic about it, Mòrag. You and Zeke simply had a fight. Quite frankly, I’m surprised it took you two this long to butt heads. But an argument doesn’t mean that your relationship is doomed. All couples fight. It’s only natural.”

“Then why does it bother me so much that he’s upset with me? Why do I even care?” Another sniffle punctuated her question.

“Because you love him. Or at least you want to,” Brighid said simply.

Mòrag opened her mouth to protest only to shut it again. Her own mouth couldn’t form the words, but when Brighid said it, it felt right. And what use was there in arguing with her Blade? Brighid understood her emotions intimately, perhaps even better than she herself did. Her Blade had simply stated the facts, and she had no evidence to the contrary.

“I...I wanted to tell him,” she admitted. “But my own damn fear got in the way again. What that man did to me...I  _ want  _ to move on from it. I realize that now. But how am I supposed to do that when I can’t even say it out loud?”

Brighid smiled. “That’s a journey you’ve already started, my dear. And I believe the next step is to go find Zeke and talk this out with him. Don’t let this argument fester between you.”

“...You’re right. As usual.”

“He’s out in the arena training. Do you feel well enough to go out there, or should I ask him to come in here?”

She took a deep breath and stood. No wave of dizziness washed over her. She felt alright—just terribly sore, like she’d overdone it during training. “I can manage.”

It was a short walk from her tent to the arena, but the exertion left her unusually tired. Maybe Nia’s prediction that the ether deficiency would force her to take a few days off from training would prove true after all. If Zeke noticed her arrival, he didn’t acknowledge her. That left her standing with no idea how to begin. Instead, she studied his movements. Each false sword strike was calm, restrained, calculated. He must have calmed down some, too. And Pandoria wasn’t around, either. That emboldened her a bit.

“I always train to cope when I’m upset, too,” she called out. “It helps clear my head.”

He stabbed his greatsword into the ground and left it there, sticking out like a toothpick, while he walked closer. 

“We need to talk.” They both stopped short; they’d said it in perfect unison. Hopefully that was a good sign.

“Zeke, I need—”

“Let me go first,” he interrupted. “Listen...I’m really sorry about earlier. I was completely out of line. I was upset about the whole duel thing, and I let my temper get the best of me. I said some things that were unkind and untrue. I hope you’ll forgive me for it.”

“...You’re right about a lot of it, though,” she whispered. “I’ve treated you unfairly.”

“That’s no excuse for me to act the way I did. It’s never right to talk to anyone like that, much less someone who’s been through everything you have. Even less to someone I love. I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “And I’m sorry that I never stopped to consider your feelings in all of this. You’ve been very patient with me. And you’re right: I have been holding you at arm’s length. I realize that now. I just...I’ve been protecting myself for so long by never letting anyone get too close. I was so scared to be hurt again, and now it’s become an instinct. So to let down the walls I’ve built around my heart, to let myself be vulnerable again, well, you’re right. I’m scared to. It’s silly, really. I  _ know  _ you’re not the kind of man who would hurt me. But knowing it in my head and letting my heart believe it...that’s where I keep getting stuck.”

“Thank you for your honesty. Then what do I have to do to earn your trust?”

“I think you already have,” she admitted. “ _ I _ just need to learn to accept you as trustworthy, I think.”

He paused. “You can choose to, you know. Look, I...I haven’t been through half of what you have. But I do know what it’s like to be hurt by someone you trust. I know what it’s like to have to learn how to trust again.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve never shown this to anyone but Pandy, but…”

She watched intently as his hands moved up to his head before settling on the strap holding his eyepatch in place. With deft fingers, he undid the fastening. The leather fell away. She bit back a gasp at the sight underneath; the second contact was just a goofy story after all. The skin there was tight and pale, lined with scars from tiny cuts—so numerous that half of his eye had scarred shut. The eyeball underneath was probably equally scarred, but in that moment she was glad she couldn’t see it. Her hand inadvertently went up to his cheek, quivering at the edge of the injury’s remnants. He didn’t pull away.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“Back when my mom died, my dad and I both took it really hard. He was different when she was around. Less cantankerous. More understanding. He hasn’t laughed since. But...after she died, he couldn’t cope. He took to drinking. A lot. So much that for a while, a regent had to rule Tantal. Turns out he’s a violent drunk. I-I know now it was an accident, but well, I ended up on the business end of a wine bottle on one of his bad days.”

“Oh, Zeke.”

He continued on with his tale. “What he did scared him so badly that he sobered up right away, but the damage was done. I couldn’t stand to be around him anymore. So when I turned fifteen, I took Pandy and bolted. My old man made up the banishment thing as a cover story for why I left. But at the time I had no intention of going back, so I went along with it. It took us a long time to work things out, but we did. I had to  _ choose _ to trust him again, though. Our relationship is still kinda rocky, but I’m glad I finally gave him a chance again. He is my family, after all.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked quietly. 

“I didn’t want to trivialize what you’d been through, because my past doesn’t nearly compare. But I do know a little how it feels to take those first steps back to trusting someone. At first, with my dad, I didn’t  _ feel  _ like it was safe to trust him. I had to choose to. I had to force myself to think about the good things he’s done since then, not the one bad thing he did a long time ago.”

“...So you think I need to choose to trust you.”

“I mean, that’s what I’d like. But I don’t want you to do it out of pity for me or anything. I...Those walls you’ve built, I’m not going to force you to take them down. That’s your choice. But I do mean what I said earlier: I don’t want to keep doing halfway in this relationship. Maybe it’s wrong or greedy of me, but I’d rather have all or nothing. What is it you want from us, Mòrag? Do you want us to stay political? I-I’ll back off if you do. We could be so much more than that, though. But only if you choose it.”

“...I understand. But Zeke, this is a lot to ask.”

“I know. I shouldn’t put you on the spot,” he sighed. If he was disappointed by another delay, he hid it well. “Look, my dad asked me to go home and help him with some trouble at the border. Something about bandit raids on our outposts. It should be pretty easy to take care of. What if I go up there and help? I’d probably be gone a week or two. That would give you some time and space to think. You could give me an answer when I get back to Hardhaigh. Does that sound fair?”

_ Just tell him now. Don’t let him leave. What if he doesn’t make it back? Could you live with yourself if you never got a chance to tell him? Don’t put it off anymore.  _

_ Keep your mouth shut. You don’t mean it. You’re just tired from the duel. Not thinking straight. Don’t lie to him. Not again. _

“...When would you leave?”

“As soon as Pandy’s packed. So later tonight.”

“All right. Just promise me you’ll travel safe.”

He nodded. “I will, but only if you promise to take it easy once you get home. You still don’t look so good.”

There was no point arguing about that; her knees still seemed a bit shaky. “I guess that ether shield stunt really took it out of me. I’ll follow Nia’s orders for recovery. I promise.”

“Good. I’ll see you next week, then. But for now, are we good?”

“Meaning?”

“As in, you’re not still mad at me. I don’t want us to spend a week apart angry at each other. That wouldn’t help anything.”

“Yes, we’re good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Fight scenes are tough. But I really enjoyed this one. If the whole Mòrag ether shield thing seems like a stretch, I do have a long, convoluted theory as to why it *might* be possible within the Xenoblade universe, but...it’s a long thing to type out. Let me know if you’d really like to hear it. ;) It’s not strictly lore, but I could see Mòrag trying something desperate like this and succeeding because she’s a queen.


	22. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up a bit more episodic than originally intended, but hey. Sometimes that's just how the story goes. I for one like the episodes. So.

The Imperial flagship departed the demilitarized zone the following morning, and despite Nia’s protests, Mòrag accompanied the Emperor. As a result, the Inquisitor’s ship was sent off with something like a victory rally. She and Brighid found themselves constantly greeted with hearty congratulations, expressions of gratitude, and chants of “hurrah”—all the way up to the gangplank of the ship. For the sake of the troops, Mòrag pretended to be completely healthy and ready to fight again if need be; but through the ether, Brighid could tell that the walk through the crowd had drained her completely. So when they were behind the closed doors of Niall’s private council chamber within the airship, Brighid practically forced her into a chair. Or maybe it was more like catching her with a chair. 

The young Emperor was visibly concerned. Nia briefed him on the Inquisitor’s condition, but knowing about it and seeing her practically collapse after a mere hour on her feet worried him. “Should you go lie down, Mòrag? This ship is outfitted with a small imperial suite. You are more than welcome to use it.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, trying—and failing—to mask the breathlessness of her voice. “But, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll leave the bodyguarding to Aegaeon and Brighid today.”

Aegaeon tensed at the mention of his name, and then he gave a tense nod, understanding the request his Driver hadn’t voiced: extra vigilance on his part. 

“Mòrag, thank you for your incredible service to our country. But please don’t ask me to put you in such jeopardy again. I was very worried about you. I still am, in fact. You look worn down.”

“I’ll be just fine soon. Nia says I need just a few more days to recover my strength. I’ll be well by the time we have the official peace talks with Uraya. They are in two weeks, correct?”

Niall nodded. “...I want the peace to be permanent this time. I don’t intend to make many demands. In fact, I have an idea that might placate Uraya completely. Might I share it with you? I’ve not yet discussed it with my council. I’d like your opinion.”

“Of course.”

“...I know Gormott is somewhat dear to you. How would you feel if it was no longer part of the Empire?”

“What do you mean?”

“From the moment we reached Elysium, I’ve entertained the notion of granting Gormott its independence—gradually, of course, to help them make the transition into self-governance smoothly. I suppose you could call it part of my five-year plan. I always intended to do it after I came of age. However, given Uraya’s concerns, it might be wise to accelerate that plan.”

Mòrag’s arms slid into a folded position as she considered his proposition. In another four months, he’d be fifteen. For him to have a plan that was more than a third of his current life—too many people underestimated how good an Emperor he’d be when he wouldn’t require the approval of his council to make decisions. But given recent events, the council might be willing to consider it. With so much new land to guard in the motherland, the Empire was hard-pressed to protect and govern its province, but her governors (excluding the Emperor) were still loath to admit that fact.

“It would certainly put Uraya more at ease. But my concern would be Brionac.”

“If it came to that, I could overrule them by decree. After all, our rationale for taking Gormott in the first place was that we needed the land and resources she offered. But that’s no longer the case. So I see no reason for us to maintain our hold on that country any longer than need be. Then Uraya would not be so concerned by our new alliance with Tantal...assuming that alliance will remain intact.”

She looked up at him and read the question in his eyes. He was getting so good at asking questions without really saying anything; it was almost infuriating. But of course he would ask about  _ that.  _

“I have to ask, sister,” Niall added, noticing the discomfort his remark caused. “I strive to respect your own personal autonomy in your relationship with Zeke, but a good portion of the army knows that you two fought yesterday. No one seems to know what you fought about, but they’re certainly talking about the fact that he departed for Tantal right away afterwards. Do I need to be concerned?”

“There’s no cause for concern, Niall,” she replied. “He’s gone to help his father with some bandit raids. It’s only a temporary visit. He’s coming back.”

The last bit was more an assurance for herself than for Niall. Last night, she hadn’t slept well. Every time she lazily turned over to put an arm around him, he wasn’t there. And then she remembered why, and she’d been unable to fall back asleep. She’d even grabbed his pillow and draped her arm across it in hopes that she could fool her subconscious into thinking he was still with her. But nothing could adequately replace the warmth that normally occupied the space beside her. Now, in the bright light of day, it seemed silly to require his presence to sleep; the Special Inquisitor did not need a teddy bear. And she’d spent most of her adult life sleeping alone; she ought to know how to simply close her eyes and sleep with the whole bed to herself. But she didn’t remember it ever feeling so...empty. 

Deep down, she chided herself for letting him leave. 

She also couldn’t shake the fear that he might not come back. For any number of reasons—some rational, plenty of them not so rational. She certainly hadn’t given him much reason to stay, had she? And he was going to be alone with Pandoria for several days now. He might realize that life alongside his Blade was so much simpler, so much easier. And in her moodier moments, Mòrag wondered if Zeke and Pandoria might slip back into their “pre-platonic” phase of their relationship. After all, they’d be alone, and judging by their last conversation, Zeke was feeling a bit needy—or at least she thought he might be. It would be so easy for him to indulge that way; there’d be no consequences with a Blade. Then he definitely wouldn’t come back to her, Mòrag thought. But she couldn’t exactly fault him for it, could she?

No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he? The vague possibility that he might do so made her want to march up to Tantal personally. Architect, the thought that she was  _ jealous  _ of Pandoria...No. Zeke said he loved her  _ just yesterday.  _ That wouldn’t change in the span of a week. He would come back. Trust worked in that arena, too.

_ You know, you’re only jealous of Pandoria because you want him for yourself. _

There it was again—the second voice. Or was it simply her own thoughts? She wasn’t really sure anymore. Either way, this kinder, hungrier second voice had been surfacing much more frequently as of late, silencing the harsh one. Her presence was a welcome change.

_ M-maybe I do. But if I can’t say something as simple as ‘I love you,’ I can’t very well do that. _

“Mòrag?”

Oh, she let her attention wander. Niall wasn’t finished conversing. “Apologies. What did you say?”

Niall shook his head. “You tell me you’re fine, but your inability to focus this morning has me wondering if I should place you on obligatory leave. I simply asked if you’d be willing to elaborate a little about why you two fought.”

“It’s not like you to pry,” she commented. This was a question she had to dodge.

“I won’t force you to. But if you’d like a sympathetic ear or advice, I do want to help.”

His eyes were sincere, earnest. In that moment she remembered how much she adored blue eyes—even envied them as a child. And now there were two sets of blue eyes she cared about more than anything. Well, one set and then another partial set in a slightly different shade of blue. 

She forced out a laugh. “Forgive my bluntness, but you are a king. Not a marriage counselor. And I’d rather not discuss it.”

His lips turned into a tiny, momentary pout. But it vanished quickly. “You laugh a lot more when he’s around, you know.”

“Do I?”

“Even Aegaeon has noted as much...Perhaps now that things have settled down with Uraya, you two will have more time to dedicate to your relationship. Trying to navigate a new marriage with everything that’s been going on—I can’t imagine how challenging that must have been.”

_ Oh, you have no idea.  _

“It will be nice to have life calm down a bit,” she replied simply. “...On second thought, I might just utilize your quarters. I expect we’ll have quite the reception when we return. A nap might be in order.”

* * *

“That was a stupid move, even for you.” Pandoria twirled the end of her tail mindlessly. She was visibly disturbed that they had to wait on Eulogimenos yet again. 

“For the last time, I know,” Zeke replied. He was annoyed that she was bringing this up again. They were all annoyed, really.

“She nearly died and you picked  _ then  _ of all times to fight with her? Seriously, dude. Dumb move.” 

“I was emotional, so I wasn’t thinking straight. I apologized. Now please stop nagging me about it.”

It had been a long week. Two days had been spent getting to Theosoir, only to learn that Eulogimenos had done something extremely out of character and gone to help with the border skirmishes personally. Yes, the king was technically a Driver, but he hadn’t dabbled in combat in years. It was something they quarrelled over frequently since reuniting after the Malos incident. Zeke had scolded him for hiding behind his royal guard and letting them do all the dirty work; he believed a king should fight alongside his people when possible, leading by example. Eulogimenos insisted that a king ought to be kept safe, to avoid throwing the country into chaos should the sovereign die in battle and leading from afar. They’d never seen eye to eye on that issue. But maybe now, Tantal’s king was budging just a smidge. Or maybe he just didn’t trust his soldiers to handle the task adequately. After all, until a year ago, Tantal’s borders hadn’t needed much protection; thousands of peds of Cloud Sea made for a great barrier. Just as Mor Ardain and Uraya were still struggling to defend their borders—albeit from each other—Tantal was, too. But bandits seemed inconsequential compared to an opposing country.

Still, for Eulogimenos to go out of his way to handle something at the border...it was unique. Zeke had never actually fought alongside his father. But for several days, they’d been roaming the wastes along the Mor Ardain-Tantal border, tracking down and routing bandit bands. They bandits themselves weren’t particularly strong, but there were enough of them to cause problems. 

Each evening, Eulogimenos arranged for them to eat dinner together when their little entourage made camp. But inevitably, they always had to wait on him for one reason or another. And whenever that happened, Pandoria seemed to adore reminding her Driver that he’d opened his big mouth and stuck his foot in it. 

And to make matters worse, he’d up and left right afterwards. 

At the time, giving Mòrag some space  _ had  _ seemed like the right idea. Maybe he needed some time away to cool down, too—after all, he might have to reconcile himself with the possibility that she would choose politics and duty. But two days after they got to Tantal he’d realized that it had been stupid to leave. Mòrag had nearly died, and he left mere hours after she woke up—what kind of message did that send? A friend would have stayed at her side. A potential lover ought to have done ten times more than that. He, however, had made a fool of himself and ran off with the excuse that his dad needed help; he’d been too scared to face the potential rejection. 

If not for his promise to his father, he would have rushed straight back to Alba Cavanich. Because now the distance between them  _ ached.  _

“Prince? The king is ready for you.”

It was no kingly banquet, but it was kind of nice to sit and chew cold meat, cheese, and bread with his father. Slowly but surely, Elysium was changing the standoffish king. Eulogimenos was here, taking a proactive response to a threat for once. And he was more open to opinions that contradicted his own, and Zeke actually enjoyed  _ discussing  _ things with the king for once instead of all-out arguing with him. Maybe he should visit more often.

Some things, however, had not changed about Eulogimenos. Like any parent to an adult child, he still found ways to overstep his bounds.

“So while you’re here, do you have any  _ news  _ for me?” the king asked once they’d finished eating.

“What?”

“Is there anything exciting you want to tell me?”

Pandoria snickered beside him, cluing him into the fact that he was missing the question his father was actually asking. Typical. But not entirely unexpected.

“No, dad. She’s not pregnant.” He failed to mask his annoyance. 

“It’s been what, four months since your wedding? Have you been using the potion I gave you?”

“Dad!” 

This one came out as a frustrated yell. Yes, an heir was the expectation behind the marriage, but even couples unhindered by a past like Mòrag’s could struggle conceiving. To be nagged about it constantly was awkward and unwanted—notwithstanding the fact that it was a line they hadn’t crossed yet. But he couldn’t possibly explain why to his father.

“Cut it out,” he said, forcing himself to speak more calmly. “Keep your nose out of our sex life.”  _ Or lack thereof,  _ he thought to himself, simultaneously proud of his self-control and undeniably disappointed that he still needed it _.  _ “I don’t care that you’re king and that our kid will be an heir to your throne. You don’t have the right to pry.”

The king stiffened at the harsh reaction, then shook his head guiltily. “I’m sorry, son. I...I was merely thinking of your mother. She would have loved to watch you become a parent. She would have loved to watch your wedding, too. When I think of all that she missed, I-I forget myself.”

For all his faults, Eulogimenos never could hide his true feelings around his son. Around counselors and Indoline agents, sure. But when he was with family, his face was a dead giveaway for what he was feeling. And now, Zeke could see the genuine apology and sadness in his eyes.

It was hard to stay mad at him when he looked like that.

“I know, Dad. I miss her, too,” he sighed. His fingers traced the scars on his wrists, and for a moment, they seemed to sting all over again. “...Do you think Mom would have liked Mòrag?”

“The first time I met Lady Mòrag, she looked me dead in the face and warned me that her country could declare war over one of the most foolish things I’ve ever done. She has a fire in her eyes that can’t be denied. Eugenie would have loved her simply for having the fortitude to stand up to me,” the king explained.

“Mom always did know how to put you in your place.” Zeke managed a small laugh. 

Eulogimenos responded with a rare half-smile. And then he descended into his own memories for a moment. “I met her on a salvage run, of all things. She and I were both diving in the Cloud Sea looking for an Orbital Skyreader. I must have looked like such a fool, covered in muck from the cloud depths. But she was...radiant. Heh, we were hardly more than kids at the time, both of us shirking our duties for some fun.”

“And to think you used to get mad at me for skipping out on my lessons to go exploring,” Zeke added. “You know, the first time Mòrag and I actually met in person, I made a fool of myself, too. Tripped over a barrier and fell into the Cloud Sea. So in a way, you could say that we both met our wives in the sea. Kinda weird, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“...Look Dad, when the day comes that Mòrag is pregnant—if that day comes—you’ll be one of the first people to know. Okay? But don’t rush us in the meantime.”

“As you wish.”

“And whenever that happens, keep in mind that you’ll be the only grandparent my kid has. Don’t you dare screw that up.”

“I didn’t do such a good job as a parent. What makes you think I can do a good job as a grandparent?”

There was Eulogimenos’s very unkingly pout again. 

“Because when it comes to the people we love, there’s always a second chance,” Zeke said quietly. “Mistakes can be forgiven. You can fix something when you mess it up.”

The last bit was more a reminder to himself than to his father, he realized. Because it was time to fix his own mistake.

It was time to go home.

* * *

“Mòrag! Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Of course she did. She could see all the light streaming through the windows; she’d been awake for hours. She simply didn’t feel like getting up. 

“It’s not  _ that  _ late. And I’m supposed to be resting, remember?”

Brighid scowled. “Nia cleared you to ease back into training again yesterday. She said your energy levels are almost completely back to normal.”

Mòrag gave an annoyed hum in response. 

“Now you’re just pouting, Mòrag, and it’s very unbecoming of you.”

“I’m not pouting.”

Brighid gave a glare with eyes halfway open that clearly scolded her:  _ Don’t you dare try and contradict me when I can see right through you. _

“Then why aren’t you up and about? I expected you to jump right back into a workout the second Nia let you. And I know you’ve seen the paperwork on your desk. The pile is taller than it’s ever been, and yet you haven’t touched it.”

All right, so maybe she was pouting. A little. Over the course of the last week, she’d spent more time sleeping than she had in years, receiving ether transfusions from Nia in the morning and evening, and otherwise recovering. By the fourth day she felt well enough to resume work without issue, but it felt like she was going through the motions. Her usual drive just wasn’t there—primarily because she kept getting distracted. Distracted by Zeke’s request, of course, but deciding where she stood on that issue kept leading her back to one very embarrassing question. But one that she really wanted the answer to. 

Who to ask, though?  _ Should  _ she even ask someone else? Pyra might be a good option, but with Rex constantly trailing her like a lost puppy dog, a private conversation would be tricky. 

Brighid was still talking. “Mòrag, pull yourself together. He’s coming back. Give him a few more days.”

She sat up, hoping Brighid hadn’t noticed the pillow she’d been clinging to like a stuffed animal. It still smelled like him. Barely.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Because I’m pathetic,” she whispered, ignoring her Blade’s protest at her choice of words. “It took nearly dying, fighting with him, and then him leaving for me to realize how I feel. For me to realize what I want. That’s pathetic.”

Brighid took a seat on the corner of the bed. “I expected you’d be angry at him for what he said.”

“I thought I would be, but I’m not. Half of the things he was upset about were only because he loves me and he wants that returned. I can’t fault him for that. No, I think I’m really angry at myself.”

Her Blade’s eyebrows raised in another silent question.

“I’m angry at myself because the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time looked at me and asked me to acknowledge him and what did I do? I hid. I used what happened to me over a decade ago as an excuse not to say how I feel in return.”

“If that’s an excuse, it’s a valid one, Mòrag.”

“Maybe it used to be. But...I fell in love with Niall in spite of the abuse that caused his birth. If I can do  _ that _ , then there’s no good reason I can’t love a man whose only real vice is his bad luck. Except I’m still clinging to the memories of what Pachnall did to me. And I can’t hold onto both Zeke and those memories. There isn’t room for both. One has to push out the other. And in that moment, when Zeke asked me to tell him how I feel, I chose the wrong thing. That was a mistake.”

Brighid gave her knee a reassuring pat. “At least it’s a mistake you can correct. But not by hiding in your room. Tell me, when he does get back: how do you want him to find you? Looking alive, well, and happy to see him? Or in here, moping like a disheveled child?”

Architect, sometimes it was annoying that Brighid knew exactly which buttons to press to motivate her. She clambered out of bed and pulled a uniform from the closet.

“That’s more like it,” Brighid commented approvingly. “Pyra’s making lunch for everyone. It should be ready by noon. Get yourself presentable and join us, all right?”

Pyra was cooking. Maybe she’d be alone in the palace kitchens. Rex and Tora tended to get into Architect-knew-what sort of mischief while the Aegis cooked, so he probably wouldn’t be breathing down her neck. That thought was a bit more motivating than lunch with the others. She gave her Blade a simple nod. And once Brighid was gone, she dressed in a hurry and made a beeline for the kitchens.

With the Fire Dragons back in Alba Cavanich for next week’s summit with Uraya, the kitchens were almost completely empty. The Ardainian palace chefs knew better than to try and cook alongside the Tirkin. And since the bird-cooks were far more efficient, they had finished cooking their own dishes long ago, which left Pyra alone to work her magic. 

Despite her earlier resolve, Mòrag found herself hesitating, half-hiding behind a stove. Of all the things she could want to ask  _ the Aegis  _ about, she just had to go and pick this one. What if Mythra emerged halfway through the conversation and punched her for asking? Pyra would probably be agreeable, but the blond Aegis could certainly be more “touchy,” as Rex put it.

But as Pyra or Mythra, the Aegis was probably the best person to ask. 

“Mòrag! You startled me! I didn’t see you there.”

“S-sorry. I didn’t intend to sneak up on you.”

Pyra gave one of her sweet smiles. “It’s your palace, so I guess you can go wherever you want, right? Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. Um—”

“Lunch is in about an hour. I bet you’re hungry since you missed breakfast this morning, right?”

She nodded, frantically racking her brain for a good excuse to stay in the kitchen a while longer. “I can help, if you like,” she volunteered weakly.

Pyra’s eyebrows shot up and she seemed to reflexively pull the pot of stock—the aroma smelled like Tricolor Bowl, Mòrag noted—a bit further away from the Inquisitor. Then she realized what she’d done and shoved it back to its place on the burner. 

“I guess you could help chop the produce,” Pyra suggested, using her spoon to point to the small mountain of wasabi, carrots, raspberries, and passion fruits. “I-I’ll do the salmon, though. I know you don’t like chopping things with eyeballs still in them.”

Mòrag managed a laugh. “I don’t mind chopping eyed creatures with a sword in a fight. But something about food with eyes—that’s different, for some reason.”

“You’re cut out for killing things, not gutting them. Subtle difference,” she noted. “Would you start on the carrots first? Those have to roast the longest.”

Morad nodded and set to work on the spindly orange roots. Hopefully Pyra wouldn’t notice the way her fingers quivered on the handle of the knife. She needed to find a way to start the conversation. Or should she just burst out and ask? At least she was dealing with Pyra, not Mythra. Pyra would be much gentler about it, even if she asked abruptly. But there was always the chance that Mythra would take over. Then they’d have to explain how they managed to set the palace kitchens on fire.

No, it would be better to ease into it gradually. 

“There’s a lot of them,” she commented as she sliced into five carrots at once. At least she couldn’t screw up chopping motionless produce. “Are there always this many?”

“Every time. But I’m pretty quick at chopping, so it usually doesn’t take too long. It’s just that Rex is still eating a ton. He’s going through another growth spurt, I think. I can’t seem to put enough food on his plate these days.”

“He’s taller than you now.”

Pyra giggled. “Yeah. It’s odd. Technically, he’s an adult now. At least by legal standards. But he’s still growing.”

“That’s not uncommon. We frequently have to issue new uniforms for our young adult recruits because they outgrow them, especially if they enlist at sixteen.”

Ugh, already her mind had jumped to work. She was never going to find a good transition to the question burning in the depths of her gut if she talked about the  _ army _ of all things. 

Thankfully, Pyra kept the topic on Rex. Good. “Whether he’s growing or not, he certainly eats a lot. I have to make like three times as much for him. There’d be even more if Zeke and Pandoria were here.” Then the Aegis stopped short. “Wait. You’re not actually here to ask me to teach you to cook, are you? So you can make something for him?”

Mòrag hoped Pyra couldn’t see her spine stiffen at the thought of something so domestic. And so pointless. She was hopeless in the kitchen, and she had no intention of changing that.

“Of course not! Why would you think that?”

“Because  _ doing things  _ for people is the way you express affection for them,” Pyra answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

“R-really?”

The Aegis nodded and joined her at the cutting board to tackle the wasabi. Her knife moved twice as fast as Mòrag’s. “You take on extra work to help the Emperor so he can have a little downtime here and there. You always help me clean up after dinner when we’re traveling together. You keep an eye out for little Ardainian Bear Carvings for Nia when we’re at a market. You help Rex train, even if you’ve already completed your training for the day. You make sure Tora has those tasty sausages, even though you’ve given him more than a year’s supply already. And I could go on and on about the things you do for Brighid. You might not say it out loud, but you show that you care about us by the things you do. So it makes sense that you might want to do something for Zeke. But my advice, Mòrag? Don’t pick cooking. It’s not you. And you should always be yourself.”

“I’m not here for cooking lessons,” she replied flatly. 

“Then why are you here? Not that I’m complaining, but you’ve never volunteered to help me with cooking before.”

Mòrag bit back the excuse she was tempted to throw out. Outwardly, Pyra might look warm, gentle, and innocent, but she was impossible to fool. At least she wouldn’t have to search for a natural transition into what she really wanted to ask the Aegis. 

“I-I wanted a chance to speak with you alone. But with Rex and the others around constantly, this seemed like the only way to talk without drawing attention,” Mòrag explained. Now there was no going back. 

“Well if you’re hoping for a heart-to-heart with the Aegis, then you’ve got your chance now.” For a moment, Pyra sounded like Mythra. 

_ Oh, please don’t switch over. Asking Pyra will be hard enough. _

Mercifully, there was no burst of ether. The redhead stayed put. “What’s on your mind, then?” she asked sweetly.

“Could I ask a rather, um, you see, I want to ask a really personal question.”

“It must be really personal if you're going red just thinking about it. You can ask me anything; you know that. But first, how about you stop chopping? You’re going to lose a finger at this rate.”

_ I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s totally inappropriate.  _ And yet she needed to ask. She dropped the knife onto the cutting board and let her hands clench into uncomfortable fists behind her back. 

“Now, what’s up?”

“Um, how did you know when it was time to, well what I’m trying to say is...how did you know you were ready to sleep with Rex for the first time?”

The question itself came rushing out in an agonized burst of nearly incomprehensible words. But Pyra’s face clearly showed that she’d understood them.

“Wow. You weren’t kidding about the whole personal bit. I had a list of things I thought you might ask, and that definitely wasn’t on it,” the Aegis smiled, blushing a tad. She stopped chopping, too. “So you and Zeke haven't been intimate yet? I thought for sure you had.”

“We tried on our wedding night. But I...I chickened out. I wasn't ready. And since then I've been scared to try again.”

“And you think you might be ready now?”

“I'm not sure. Hence the personal question.”

“Well, it's not something you can just put a definition on. There's no textbook for it. It’s almost instinctive, really. But I think the fact that you're  _ asking _ means you might be ready. You’re not the sort of person to talk about this casually, so I know you're at least thinking about it. And you probably have been for a while.” Pyra hesitated, searching for the right words. “The first time can feel like a risk. I won't try to tell you otherwise. It’s not like the no-strings-attached one-night stand stuff they put in books these days. When it's sex with someone so important to you, with someone you truly care about, well...it takes your relationship to a different level. It changes things. It takes a lot of vulnerability to let yourself be open to a change like that. I know vulnerability isn't easy for you. But I promise you, that risk is so worth it."

Mòrag nodded, recalling how confused she’d felt in the shower with him over a week ago. It had been nice, but she couldn’t bring herself to act on her urges. And then there were those silly feelings of jealousy towards Pandoria. Surely those were related. “Isn't there some way to be sure I'm ready?”

“You trust him, right?”

_ Trust.  _ There was that word again. It just kept coming back. At least this time she knew the answer. 

“Of course.” 

“But how much do you trust him?”

“With my life. But I'm not sure why that applies.”

“If you can trust him with your life, don't you think it's okay to trust him with your body, too? With your heart?”

“...Perhaps.”

“For you, that’s totally a yes,” Pyra pointed out. “So when he gets back, go to him. See what happens. If you're ready, believe me, you'll know. And if you are, just do what feels right.”

“...Thanks, Pyra.” She took a deep breath, very grateful that Mythra had stayed in the background the whole time. “Just please keep this conversation between us.”

The Aegis gave a single resolute nod and returned to the task of chopping up the vegetables. Mòrag joined her. Now that the awkward part of the conversation was over, the knife wasn’t shaking so badly. 

“If you don’t mind my asking, why’d you ask me this?” Pyra asked. “I don’t mind, of course. It just seems like the kind of thing you’d talk about with Brighid. That’s all.”

“Brighid and I don’t really talk about this sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

She paused. Astute as she was, maybe Pyra suspected the real reason. But Mòrag couldn’t bring herself to outright confirm or deny those suspicions. Come to think of it, she didn’t even know if Brighid  _ had  _ any romantic inclinations—not in this lifetime or past ones. Suddenly Mòrag felt guilty. Surely a Driver should know such a thing about her Blade. 

“Um, well, neither of us has much experience in these matters. Until now, I’ve always been so focused on my work, and Brighid is fiercely loyal to me. So here we are. You seemed better equipped to give advice about such a thing.”

“Someone as gorgeous as Brighid? Surely she has people fawning over her. If not in this lifetime, at least in past ones. She could probably consult her journals.”

“If she’s ever been interested in anyone past or present, she’s not told me. That’s all.”

Pyra nodded. “Well, I’m always glad to help. If you’ve got any other questions, or if you ever need advice or just a sympathetic ear, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks.”

“Right then! I’m about to cut the salmon. If you don’t want to see fish eyes staring back at you, you might want to go tell the others that dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

To Mòrag’s relief, Pyra never breathed a word of that conversation to anyone; not even her expression betrayed it. When they brought the food out to the others—Mòrag stayed in the kitchens with the Aegis the entire time for the company, not the cooking observation—no one could tell a thing. Their only remarks were that it was good to see Mòrag up and about again. 

All of Hardhaigh Palace shared that sentiment, in fact. For the Inquisitor to be at Alba Cavanich but not inside her office was practically unheard of. So when she returned, more to force herself through the paperwork than anything else, the palace itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Over the next few days, Mòrag found herself being greeted, thanked, and congratulated by nearly every staffer and soldier she encountered. But it was never the voice she wanted to hear. 

There’d been no news, no messages, no reports. That in itself wasn’t too worrying; Zeke had never been good at long-distance communications, not even when their relationship was nothing more than two dignitaries for countries that shared a border. But still, a little anxiety stuck in her gut whenever she caught a glance of her dormant ethercom. Or when no written messages got dropped in her office mailbox. More than once, she sat down to write a letter to send to him instead. And more than once, she crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket. The truth needed to be said, but...it needed to be  _ said,  _ not written. And it needed to be said to his face.

Day nine. Ten. Eleven. Twe—

The whole palace seemed to shake as the great front doors were flung open. The metal comprising each one flickered with sparks of electricity. The lights in the hall flickered just as much.

Mòrag stopped short. She and Brighid were just finishing their midday rounds with paperwork in hand and Rex, Pyra, and Nia in tow (Rex, as usual, wanted a spar, and his two Blades came along to ensure that the eager salvager didn’t try to rope Mòrag into teaching him her ether shield technique). For someone to get into the palace without being stopped by the guards, and to call so much attention to themselves—

Or rather, himself. Well, technically themselves, but Mòrag only cared about the figure in front. 

Zeke and Pandoria had already launched into announcing their presence with some strange new choreography. They must have developed it while they were away. Architect, it was probably the dumbest one yet. Most Ardainians in the vicinity didn’t even pay any attention; they’d long since grown bored of the Driver and Blade’s antics. Only his companions were watching, really. 

“Zeke!” 

Her outburst, unlike his dance, gained plenty of Ardainian attention; it was an oddly high-pitched sound, almost giddy. It had slipped out of her throat before she could stop it. But she didn’t care. Zeke was back, just a few peds away. 

But even those dozen peds or so suddenly seemed like too great a distance. She broke into a run. For once, it didn’t matter how many people were watching. The paperwork she held fluttered to the ground as she raced to his side and flung her arms around him. He took a several steps back, startled, then returned the embrace. She took a deep breath, soaking in his scent, his warmth, his hair brushing against her cheek. Everything else fell away—nothing could distract her from that hug. Not the sounds of Pandoria, Rex, and Nia all chatting up a storm already. Certainly not the fact that she was breaking half a dozen rules of etiquette by pouncing on him like this. 

“Looks like someone’s happy to see me.”

“I missed you,” she admitted, whispering so the others wouldn’t overhear.

“Oof, Flames, you’re going to squeeze the stuffing out of me,” he laughed.

She only slightly loosened her hold on him. Architect, it felt good to hear him laugh again. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“It’s good to be back. Um, did something happen while I was gone? You’re acting a bit strange.”

She shook her head. “No, everything’s been fine. I just—I never should have let you leave in the first place. I should have asked you to stay.”

“I never should have left,” he admitted in return, a mix of relief and regret crossing his expression. “I’m sorry I did. I shouldn’t have fought with you, either. How can I make it up to you?”

“You don’t need to. Because you were right. I was holding you at arm’s length and not being honest with you, and I’m so sorry I did. You asked me to make a decision about us, and I should have made my choice then and there.”

“And what about now? Have you decided?” 

Yes, she had. The palace entryway, however, was not where she envisioned this conversation taking place. But his presence alone had sucked the words out of her. Somewhere,  _ anywhere  _ a little more private would suffice. Even just around the corner. She pulled him into the nearest hallway, resisting the urge to smother him in kisses now that they were out of the line of the others’ sight. No, kisses could come later. He needed to hear her say it. She needed to hear herself say it. 

“I...I did a lot of thinking while you were away. I-I think I understand now. I had it backwards. I always thought that I wouldn’t be able to love someone until I healed from everything that happened to me. Until I wasn’t a broken mess of a person anymore. But if you can love me in spite of that mess, then...maybe love is the healing I’ve been looking for all along.”

“W-what are you saying?”

“I’m still not very good at this whole relationship thing. I need to be better about telling you how I’m feeling, and considering your feelings, too. I want to be better at it. And starting now, I will be.”

She took a deep breath. She’d spent all week rehearsing what to say to him. Diplomacy was something she’d been trained to talk her way through. But no training had ever prepared her for this. So she wrote a mental script in her head, hoping that somehow her words could do this justice.

“So here goes: after all that happened when I was younger, I built a lot of stupid walls because I was hell-bent on keeping myself from getting hurt again. And it worked. But I also shut myself off from a lot of good things, too. Love included. Then you came along and started climbing the walls I’d built. You wormed your way into my heart somehow—I still don’t quite know how you did it—and that scared me, so I tried to shut you out. But this messy stronghold that is my heart, well, it’s not the same without you in it.”

Oh, no. That wasn’t in the script. She was rambling now. What had she intended to say next?

“Um, my heart, my life...it’s safer when you’re there, somehow. Maybe that’s because an ally is better protection for a heart than walls. Ugh, I’m no good with this. I’m talking like a soldier again. Military metaphors—I’m not making any sense, am I?”

He gave an encouraging smile. “I read you. Keep going.”

“Last week, before you left...I wanted to tell you how I felt. But I was scared to. I said it was because of him, but deep down there was another reason. You see, having you in my life, having your love—it’s an absolute dream. I was scared that your love was too good to be true. And I guess I thought that if I said my feelings out loud, I’d ruin that dream. I didn’t want to wake up. So I hid behind my walls. But I know now that I don’t want the walls anymore. I don’t want a halfway relationship, either. I just want you. I—”

_ There’s no going back from this. If you open your mouth to finish that sentence, I can’t protect you anymore. I won’t protect you anymore. It’s him or me. _ The voice didn’t sound harsh this time. Merely resigned.

Today, contradicting her was as easy as breathing.  _ I don’t  _ **_need_ ** _ protecting now. I don’t need you. _

“—I love you, Zeke.”

He grinned as the last bit of tension released from his shoulders. “I love you, too, Flames.”

For the longest time, his kisses had been warm and reassuring. But now his lips felt like home. And she wanted to stay forever. 

_ So give him a reason to stay. Make him. Shove him against a wall and make it so you’re the only thing he can think about.  _ The other voice this time. No, that was her own voice. Now she felt sure of that. 

She yanked him closer so his body was tight against her own. The motion made him gasp. Her tongue took advantage of that opening in his lips, mingling with his. Never before had she kissed anyone so aggressively, so hungrily. But that simple taste whetted an appetite she’d long kept buried. Her kisses trailed down his neck, nibbling at the small leather choker there, only to return to his mouth again. The warmth there—no, the heat, really—felt magnetic. And the weak little moan he made only fanned the flame. If not for the fact that they were still in a fairly open corridor, drawing the stares of every passing servant, she might not have let him go. 

“So...what now?” Zeke asked. The kiss had left him breathless.

Mòrag’s skin felt like it was on fire, set ablaze by that primal embrace. Acting on that impulse was easy; talking about it proved harder. “Well,” she began sheepishly, “we do have some unfinished business to attend to.”

Zeke threw back his head in annoyance. “Mòrag, why is it always all business with you? Lighten up.”

She hesitated, expecting to hear the old voice telling her to brush this off as an eager reunion and walk away. But it was gone. Not just silent—gone. Absent. Banished by her own unequivocal confession. All that remained was herself: her instincts, her hopes, her choices, her desires. She listened to them, tracing little circles on his exposed chest. No, this wasn’t enough.

Pyra was right.

“Well, I was thinking, if we...got back to work on that heir, perhaps we could mix business and pleasure.”

Zeke’s eyes widened as her sentence finally sunk in. “Mòrag, do you mean…?” His voice trailed off.

“I-I’m feeling very brave today, I think. I don’t know if I’m actually ready yet, but I want to try again. If you’re willing, that is.”

“Of course. But are you sure? After what happened last time—” 

“I didn’t completely trust you then. I didn’t love you, either. Maybe now that I do, I’ll be able to. Or maybe I won’t. But there’s only one way to know for sure. A-and I want to know.”

Zeke couldn’t help but stare at her for a minute. The look on her face was so earnest yet endearingly vulnerable. She was  _ cute _ like this. And it was all he could do to resist the urge to scoop her up and carry her upstairs as fast as his feet would take them. She hated being carried, and he was  _ not  _ about to ruin her mood by upsetting her. And with Rex, Pyra, Pandoria, Brighid, and Nia all catching up across the hall, it would definitely cause a scene. 

He smiled. “Then let’s sneak out of here, shall we? Last one to the room’s a rotten egg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, trying to write a scene between Zeke and his dad: “Gotta hurry this up because if I have to type Eulogimenos *one more time* I’m going to throw my computer.” Seriously a struggle to spell it right. 
> 
> But gosh, after everything, after 137k+ words or so, it felt so good to finally cut Mòrag a break. She deserves it. 
> 
> It’s looking like there’s one more significant story arc to cover (and I bet you can guess what it is), and then we’ll bring this adventure to a close. I would LOVE to finish it before the year ends, but with the holidays incoming, I don’t know if that will happen. Still gotta love on my family and friends, too. But I will definitely be finishing this fic. I’ve come too far not to. 
> 
> Updates might be a bit slower this week because of Thanksgiving (also happy turkey day to my stateside peeps). 'Til next time!


	23. Duty & Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly fluff and I'm not even sorry about it. But don't worry. There's still plot left. ;)

“What’s on your mind?” Zeke whispered. 

Mòrag hummed in response. Normally, she always managed to come up with an adequate response to anything, even in tense diplomatic situations. But now, with every nerve, every ounce of blood in her body still coursing with the remnants of that fiery, slowly fading tingle—no, luxurious energy was the better phrase—she couldn’t seem to assemble a coherent sentence. 

It was almost embarrassing being so new at this. She knew how the biology of it worked, of course, but past experiences had left her apprehensive, unsure what to expect from what Zeke so non-eloquently called a “mutual thing.” She certainly hadn’t expected to feel this... _relaxed_ afterwards. But Zeke had been so patient and gentle, easing her into each new touch in such a way that the ensuing waves of pleasure felt completely natural. Instinct had taken over far faster than she ever could have imagined. And now she was blissfully, utterly limp. Yet, there was a nagging doubt at the back of her mind that she was still inadequate, almost childish in their intimacy, leaving him dissatisfied. She considered asking if he’d enjoyed it, too. 

But was it even appropriate for one to ask such a thing after sex? She didn’t know. No, surely it was silly to ask; this wasn’t a sparring match to be critiqued and verbally rehearsed. And she knew the answer, anyway; he was smiling contentedly—his face practically glowed—from where he’d collapsed beside her. His thumb gently stroked the leg she still had loosely hooked around him.

“Just basking in the afterglow, eh?” he teased.

Of all the things to say—quoting a part of a phrase she’d frequently directed at an overly-exuberant Rex after an intense monster fight. But it was so like Zeke, too. And the characteristic dorkiness of his question made her less self-conscious about her own ineptitude to, well, pillowtalk. 

“I-I never thought I’d be able to enjoy this. But that was...um, that was wonderful. Thank you for being so patient with me. And so gentle. Sorry it took so long,” she finally answered.

He gave a relaxed sigh. “It wasn’t actually all that long, you know. Not in the grand scheme of things. And that was totally worth the wait.”

“Really?”

He nodded, dispelling the last bits of self-doubt she had. The thought of mutual satisfaction drew her back towards him like a magnet, and she rolled over until she was practically on top of him. 

“Someone’s a cuddlebug.”

“Call me that in public and I’ll whip you.” Her voice was muffled against his neck.

“I don’t think I’d mind that, actually.”

His little quips were equal parts infuriating and enticing. How, exactly, did he keep finding ways to stir up carnal urges she didn’t even know she possessed? And what was the point? They were both spent for the moment. And there was still work to do yet today; if they lingered too long, someone might come looking for them. The thought that Brighid or Pandoria—the former more likely than the latter—might barge in and find them entangled like this made her toes curl in embarrassment. 

The thought was not embarrassing enough to draw her off him, though. The sheer novelty of her bare skin against his overpowered it. And anyway, Brighid could probably tell precisely where she was through their resonance; surely (hopefully) the Blade would put two and two together. She could be a cuddlebug a little longer.

“I-is this real? I’m not dreaming, am I?” she whispered.

“If it is a dream, it’s a damn good one. But don’t worry. It’s real. I’m yours.”

“Mine...I think I like the sound of that.”

They both fell silent for a while, soaking in that newfound contentment. Zeke aimlessly ran his fingers through her hair; even disheveled as it was, falling loose about her shoulders, it was perfect. _She_ was perfect. He lay entranced, hoping he could somehow freeze each detail of these moments into his memory with perfect clarity. How it felt to finally have her trust him completely. The way her back rose and fell in perfect sync with her now-relaxed breathing. A similar rise and fall of her entire form each time he inhaled and exhaled. The softness of her skin, a stark contrast from the hard-earned muscles lining every inch of her frame. How those same muscles had twitched as he kissed them all. The feeling of the scars on her wrists and stomach beneath his lips—and how he wanted both to kiss them out of existence and yet leave them there because somehow, the fact that they existed and she accepted him anyway filled him with a sense of gratitude, pride, and exhilaration all at once. Her fingers entwined with his during a tidal wave of perfect bliss. The way she murmured his name like a prayer.

And overpowering it all, the fact that she was no longer just his wife—she was his lover.

She was looking up at him now, her eyes hardly blinking as her chin nuzzled into his chest. He could almost see the thoughts swirling around in those eyes.

“...You’ve got your thinking face on, Flames. What is it?”

“I have a thinking face?”

“Yup. You bite the corner of your lip. It’s kinda cute. So, what’s got you thinking?”

“It’s a shame there’s so much work to do. Th-this is nice.”

“Already hoping for another round, are you? Making up for lost time?” he laughed, propping one arm behind his head. With his free hand he traced the lines of taut muscle in between her shoulder blades. “Or are you worried that Brighid is going to come hunting for you once she realizes you’re skipping out on work this afternoon?”

Her lips curled into a little half-smirk. “Well, I certainly don’t want to tell my son that I missed a council meeting because my husband and I were in bed together.”

“Heh. I can see why that’d be awkward.”

“...You know, now that we’re really, truly together—in every sense of the word, I suppose—I sort of regret that we never actually got to go on a honeymoon. It would have been nice, I think.”

“So let’s go on one now.”

Now those lips turned into a pout. “This isn’t exactly the best time for a vacation.”

“And what, you think there will ever be a ‘good time’ for us to go on one?” Zeke asked. He didn’t wait for her to reply (and he didn’t need to; he was right). “Look, it’s going to take a few weeks for the whole peace agreement to be formalized with Uraya. We don’t technically have to be at those proceedings. Niall and his council can handle it. And the Aramach are completely locked down. Honestly, there might not be a _better_ time for us to get away for awhile.”

She sat up so she was leaning with her forearms against his chest, eyes meeting his. Maybe it was irresponsible, but such a thing did sound nice. “Where would we even go?”

“Hmm. We both love Fonsett. Rex said it’s still intact. Still along the beach, too. And I bet he could get us a place to stay.”

“We are _not_ going to Corrine’s. I won’t have her or her charges listening in on us.” Mòrag shuddered at the thought. 

“We’d stay someplace private, silly,” Zeke chuckled. “Your bedtime voice is for my ears only now.”

She thought about it. Since the wedding, there’d barely been a moment’s peace. How nice it would be to just press the pause button on that chaos, to pass days doing only as they pleased. She couldn’t recall the last time she had lived so. And what better place to get solace than in Fonsett? If they appeared anywhere else, they might find themselves nagged by the press and local busybodies. But in Leftheria, they weren’t high-profile royals—simply friends of Rex. Fonsett brought one thing their lives blatantly lacked: simplicity.

“I suppose I _could_ ask for some leave time. But leaving Niall to deal with the peace talks by himself…”

“Between Brighid, Aegaeon, and his council, he’d be fine.”

“I just don’t know.”

“Do you need me to remind you why you want to? Because I’ll gladly convince you.”

With a single, fluid motion, he rolled them both over so she was on her back again and proceeded to kiss her everywhere—any patch of exposed skin he could reach. The embraces tickled, drawing a laugh from her throat. Architect, now even the playful touches felt good.

“Okay, okay! I’ll _ask._ But I can’t promise he’ll agree.”

“Oh, he will.” He kissed her on the mouth, combing fingers through her hair again. Then he rolled off her. “At the very least, we can get something on the calendar for after the peace talks. So go make your request, _Special_ Inquisitor.”

“Right now?”

“Duh. I want to make up for lost time!”

“...Patience is not one of your virtues. But fine. I’ll indulge you. I need to clean up first, though.” She climbed out of bed in a hurry, eager to get into the warmth of the shower now that she was out from under him and the blankets. Zeke watched her like a puppy. A lovesick one. “Join me?”

Maybe it was irresponsible, but the smirk he gave solidified her desire to request some time away.

* * *

“Special Inquisitor, there you are!” Niall said brightly. “I was beginning to worry that something was amiss. Please, join us.”

Mòrag took her customary seat next to Niall. She’d expected his council meeting to be over by now, but here he was, still in the throes of policy discussions. Maybe she should have waited until the meeting adjourned before tracking him down. Or waited until the morning. Because now she felt the gazes of his entire council, all of them silently questioning why the Inquisitor—the meticulous, ever dedicated right hand to the Emperor—was late, of all things. Could they guess? Was she blushing? Or was Niall about to ask why she was absent? 

She hadn’t thought this through. Zeke’s spontaneous nature was rubbing off on her, it seemed.

“A-apologies, Your Majesty. Nothing is wrong. Please forgive my tardiness.”

Mercifully, Niall didn’t press the issue. That made her feel a little better. But even as he launched back into his detailed plan for how the Gormotti would be granted their independence over again, she still couldn’t help wonder if the counselors had deduced where she actually was. It felt both terrible and wonderful to think that she’d been so self-indulgent in the middle of a workday. But she didn’t regret it, either.

She did not contribute much to the discussion; she and Niall had discussed it in detail several days before. And even if a counselor had raised any strenuous objections to the plan, she was too distracted to give the Emperor much assistance. It was all at the front of her mind: how it felt to be with him, the sheer relief that she was able to, the curiosity coiling in her gut at the thought that it could get even better—no, she couldn’t think about that now. And yet she couldn’t stop it. Architect, she needed time away for no other reason than she needed a chance to wrap her mind around this new aspect of her life. 

Finally, the meeting adjourned, and the counselors filed out of the room. Niall stayed put, understanding without being told that she wanted a moment of his time. Aegaeon lurked behind him, hardly visible from the throne’s shadow. 

“Sister, what is on your mind? You seem distracted.”

“I’d like to make a request, if I may,” she began, wondering how much of the request she’d have to explain. Would Niall even understand? 

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’d like to request some leave time.”

“Oh? For what purpose? Are you still not feeling well?”

“That’s not it,” she added hurriedly to dispel the sudden concern that washed over Niall’s face when he wondered about her health. “I, well, Zeke and I would like to take a trip to Fonsett Village. To spend some time together.”

“Ah. To replace the honeymoon that Uraya so rudely prevented,” Niall said simply.

“Yes. That. Perhaps it’s a bit selfish to ask for such a thing, but—”

“Request granted. You can leave as soon as you wish.”

Her jaw dropped and hung open for a few seconds before she collected herself. “W-what? You’re agreeing?” 

Niall nodded, a small grin easing itself into his face. “This whole affair started the day after your wedding, when by all rights you should have had time to yourselves. I truly hated to drag you back to work so quickly. But you never complained, throwing yourself into the work relentlessly as you always have. That day, I promised you as much leave time as you desired as soon as the conflict was over. And thanks to your peerless bladework, it is over now. So there’s no reason I can’t uphold that vow.”

“But what about the peace talks with Uraya? I should be here to assist you with the proceedings.”

“They’re occurring on home soil. They’ll be perfectly safe. And I can manage the finer details of policy and diplomacy just fine on my own now. I’m not a child anymore, Mòrag.”

“That’s not what I meant, Your Majesty. It’s merely that I want you to consider the full implications of my being gone during such an important conference. Even if I didn’t attend the proceedings, plenty of related tasks and paperwork would find its way to the Special Inquisitor’s office. And I wouldn’t be around to complete them. Are you truly all right with that?”

“Lady Brighid has served alongside you for the entire time you’ve been in that office,” Niall said. “Perhaps it’s bold of me to assume, but I do believe she can act in your stead for the entirety of your absence. And knowing her keen attention to detail, she’d do so flawlessly. I’m quite confident she’d be willing to act as your proxy while you’re away.”

“Yes, but what about the Aramach? They’re still a threat, too.”

“The siege line holds. After all the losses we incurred with Uraya, I believe it’s in our best interests to maintain that strategy. It will take longer to neutralize them than a full-on assault would, but I want to preserve as many lives as I can.”

“What if something goes wrong? What if something happens while I’m gone?”

“Then Brighid, Aegaeon, and I will handle it. You’re an incredible asset to my reign, but I’m not incompetent without you.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Do you want to go or not? Because you seem to be looking for reasons for me _not_ to allow you to go.”

“...I would love to go. But you know how I hate to abandon my duty.”

“You aren’t abandoning your duty, Mòrag. You’re simply attending to different duties. Duties as a wife, and duties to yourself as a human being. And I can find no selfishness in that. In fact, I’m excited to see you ask for a break for once. So go. Enjoy a vacation. Be gone as long as you wish. You’ve more than earned it.”

“Th-thank you, Your Majesty.”

Mòrag never intended to make a big deal about the trip; she would have liked to simply finish up the last of her paperwork and slip away without any sendoff. And in hindsight, perhaps she ought to have been the one to consult with Rex about finding a place to stay near Fonsett; she might have been able to convince the young Aegis Driver to be, well, discreet. But Zeke had insisted on making those arrangements as soon as the Emperor gave them the go-ahead. He seemed even more eager than she to get away, and he’d practically accosted Rex to find accommodations for them. So inevitably Rex told Mythra that their friends would be taking a late honeymoon, who told Nia and Pandoria, and from there, the matter got entirely out of hand. It seemed that the entire palace knew of their looming departure before Mòrag had even had a chance to pack a single bag. 

_Going forward, I’ll handle vacation arrangements, not him,_ she noted to herself as she lined the bottom of her bag with a few essentials. It felt strange to think that she’d be going several days without donning her uniform. She didn’t even own that many casual outfits. If they stayed for more than four days, she’d probably need to do laundry. Brighid had volunteered to partially remedy that situation by going into town to get her a few “cute, comfy, casual outfits” for the trip, but Mòrag turned down the offer.

“I’m not going to change who I am, Brighid. I see little point in buying clothes that I won’t use outside of this trip.”

Her Blade made an expression that was almost a pout, but not quite. “There’s no rule that explicitly says you have to wear your uniform every day, you know. You’re turning over a new leaf now, so why not branch out a bit?”

“I’m turning over a new leaf, not an entire tree. Let me make one change at a time, please.”

“What if Zeke asked you to wear a skirt? Would you change your style for him?”

 _He seems to like it best when I’m not wearing much of anything,_ she thought, but bit the comment back. “That doesn’t really matter. He knows the uniform is part of the job.”

“But you—”

Whatever Brighid was going to say next, she was interrupted by a loud chorus of boisterous conversation. It drew closer with every second. Both Driver and Blade looked to the open doorway for the source of the noise.

Oh, no. Nia, Pandoria, Poppi, Mythra, and Kora—wait, when had Kora even arrived at Alba Cavanich?—all trailing into her room with giddy mischief written all over their faces. This wasn’t going to be good. 

“Oi, Mòrag! I hear you and Zeke are going on a baby making trip!” Nia made a little purring noise.

In that moment, Mòrag felt she might vomit from sheer embarrassment. “I-it’s a late honeymoon,” she replied, her voice high-pitched. 

“Then it _is_ a baby making trip.”

“I never said that.”

“Semantics, really.”

Mòrag looked to her Blade, hoping Brighid could read the _“rescue me”_ she shouted with her eyes. But Brighid simply held up her hands as if to say that she’d have to find her own way out of this one.

“Why are you all here?”

Kora skipped forward with a large gift bag in hand and dropped it on the table. “We’re helping you pack by adding to your wardrobe! Obviously. And you know, since we were trapped in Uraya for such a long time before your wedding, we were never able to get you a gift or anything. But better late than never, right? Us girls all pitched in and got you these!”

“Go on, Mòrag. Take a peek. We think you’ll like ‘em,” Nia urged, winking.

Mythra scoffed. “More like Zeke will like them.”

Kora picked the bag back up again and held it out to its intended recipient. Suddenly feeling apprehensive, Mòrag took it. What was Mythra talking about? The bag was surprisingly light, and no one had really bothered to wrap the contents. The only “gift wrap” included was a single sheet of tissue paper. Underneath it, she could see bold swatches of color and...tangles of lace and satin.

Oh. _That_ was what Mythra meant.

She silently prayed that her cheeks weren’t going as red as one of the garments they’d given her. _Don’t overreact,_ she told herself. _They mean well. And—_

“Um, th-thank you. You shouldn’t have,” she said as sweetly as she could manage.

They really shouldn’t have. Or maybe they should have.

_Architect, they even dragged Poppi into this. Although with Tora’s shopping habits, I suppose it’s nothing new to her. Ugh._

“We got them at Peatopaz,” Kora said eagerly. Clearly she was enjoying this. “They have a _ton_ of stock there! Like, I had no idea that Mor Ardain of all places had such a good lingerie shop. It took us hours to pick our favorites. But ooh, it was so much fun! Next time, we’ll bring you with us. It can be a girl’s day out!”

That would not be happening. For a lot of reasons, really. Most important among them that the _Special Inquisitor_ could not be seen frequenting such a place. Marriage or not, she had an image to uphold. 

“How do you even know that these will fit?” she asked, trying to sound as appreciative as she could even though she still couldn’t quite decide whether to be mortified or grateful.

“They will. Brighid gave us your sizes. No returns or exchanges needed!” It was Pyra this time. But the redheaded Aegis gave a knowing smile instead of a mischievous one.

Mòrag shot Brighid a glare. “You were in on this?”

Brighid merely shrugged, but she could see a twinge of satisfaction lurking in the Blade’s gaze. Mòrag might be able to refuse something of this sort from her Blade, but Brighid knew full well that she couldn’t turn down a gift from someone else on account of etiquette alone. 

Brighid was enjoying this. They were all enjoying this. 

“I knew there was no stopping them,” Brighid replied simply. “Would you have preferred they ask a shop attendant to guess your sizes?”

“N-no, but—”

Pandoria and Pyra seemed to read the flustered stare the Driver threw at her Blade; they quickly pulled the others towards the door again.

“Anyway, we’ll leave you to your packing! Have fun, Mòrag!”

“Oh, she will.”

The girls piled out of the room as quickly as they’d come, their chatter as loud as ever. Brighid fought down a laugh as she watched her Driver gingerly pull her gifts from the bag, inspecting each one with an expression void of all her usual grace and dignity. Eventually she settled on one of the pieces—true to herself, it was one of the most conservative sets in the lot, and blue. She frowned.

“Not very practical, is it?”

That drew out Brighid’s buried laugh. “It’s not meant to be. Look, if the thought truly makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to use them. But Mythra is right; he’d like them.”

Mòrag was blushing all over again, clearly grappling with the fact that this was all so _new_ to her. It almost looked as though she was torn between hiding in a corner and indulging in her own curiosity. 

“To have special undergarments just for intimacy—it seems impractical at best,” she said at last. “Wasteful at worst.”

“A little indulgence here and there isn’t a bad thing, Mòrag. You’re going on a _honeymoon._ A year ago, we both would have found such an idea entirely unfathomable, but here you are. So enjoy yourself. There’s no shame in it.”

“The trip’s not just for the sex, you know,” Mòrag admitted. The words made her flush up to her ears—it must have been the tenth time that day. “Well, it’s a big part of it, but it’s not the only reason I want to go.”

“But if it were the only reason you wanted to go, that would be perfectly legitimate. What else is there, then?”

Mòrag paused, taking a few of the less outrageous pieces and stashing them in her bag. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea the girls had ever had. At least they’d given them to her now and not four months ago. That would have made her melt into a puddle of embarrassment. Today, it was still outside her comfort zone, but they _did_ mean well, in their own overexhuberant way. At least Kora hadn’t demanded she try them on. Maybe, if she was feeling particularly brave one evening, she could use one of the classier sets. The others—Architect, some of them were embarrassing to even look at—those could stay here to be used later. Or burned. 

“As happy as I am that I was able to sleep with him—no, relieved is the better word. Well, glad fits, too. Regardless, I’m not so foolish as to think that sex alone will suddenly turn our relationship into an idyllic romance,” Mòrag continued. “We still have a lot to learn together, about each other. The fact remains that this was an arranged marriage. Yes, we’ve come a long way in the four months we’ve been living together, but much of that time has been absolute chaos. We...I haven’t been able to give the relationship any attention. Now it’s time to do that.”

“It’s still quite unlike you to simply up and leave at the drop of a hat. Especially with all that’s going on.”

“Spontaneity in moderation isn’t such a bad thing, is it? I believe some time to ourselves will do us good. It will give us a chance to understand each other on a deeper level without the pressures of war and work breathing down our necks. And now that a child between us is a distinct possibility, it’s a necessity that we do so.” The blush faded from Mòrag’s cheeks, replaced by her usual mature, businesslike expression. “...I don’t know how quickly we’ll conceive, Brighid. I-if it happens, whether that’s soon or months from now, I want Zeke and I to be in a good place together. I already brought one child into the world with a complicated family. I don’t want that to happen again. Not when I can help it.”

“You don’t need to put that kind of pressure on yourself, Mòrag. Let your relationship with him happen naturally. Don’t treat it like a soldier’s duty.”

“But it is still my duty. Yes, it’s a duty that I’m learning to enjoy, but that doesn’t change the fact that Mor Ardain needs my relationship with Zeke to endure... _I_ need it to last.”

“You’ve come such a long way, Mòrag. It does my core good to see healing you like this,” Brighid admitted.

Mòrag pulled her attention away from the suitcase and gave her Blade a rare but quick hug. “I never would have made it this far if not for you, Brighid. I owe you a greater debt than could ever be repaid. Thank you.”

“It’s not a debt, Mòrag. You owe me nothing. I’m just glad the Architect has finally seen fit to give you the peace you so desperately deserve.”

“I just hope that nothing happens with the Aramach while we’re away. Perhaps I’m just being paranoid after everything that’s happened since the wedding, but I can’t shake the fear that something will happen.”

For a brief, passing moment, Brighid made an odd face. But it vanished with a quick shake of her head. “Relax. It’s going to be fine. You’re only feeling that way because you’re unaccustomed to taking a leave of absence.”

“I-I just feel...I don’t know. I really want to go, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being selfish by wanting that.”

“You’re _not,_ Mòrag. Selfishness is not one of your vices. But if it puts your mind at ease, I will tend to the Emperor like a hawk. And if anything is amiss, I’ll send for you immediately. I promise.”

“...Thank you. I know he’ll be in good hands.”

* * *

Brighid never thought of herself as an indecisive person. But events of late had thrown her usual resolve into chaos. Each day passed into an existential crisis: to tell or not to tell.

For well over a decade, she’d longed to see this kind of healing in her Driver. And it seemed that as soon as Mòrag made the conscious decision to move on, that healing had come in a rush. There would probably be setbacks along the way, but progress was progress. And Mòrag had made a lot of it. They’d been gone for nearly two weeks already, and since there’d been no communication from either Zeke or Mòrag, it was fair to assume that they were enjoying their time away. No news was good news on that front. 

But for Brighid, the more her Driver healed, the more miserable she herself became. Yes, her core thrummed with satisfaction at the thought that Mòrag was finally learning to be happy. Architect knew she deserved it. But the happier she got, the more terrible it seemed to Brighid to tell her the truth about Pachnall. 

It was a cruel irony, really. 

She should have told her before the duel. No, even earlier, when she’d first confirmed that the monster was still alive. Now it was too late. Mòrag had never been happier; to tell her the truth about her rapist as soon as she got from her _honeymoon,_ of all things—it would be like slapping her Driver in the face. Or lighting her on fire and walking away.

Which left her with only one option: killing Pachnall herself before Mòrag could find out. 

On that fact, she was resolved. As for _how_ to manage such a feat, with the Aramach entrenched in a fire-hostile area and locked down by an Ardainian siege—

—Unfortunately, that was where Cor Baragh came in.

With all the business with Uraya, from the arrangements of the single combat duel to the peace talks, the extradited criminal had been mostly ignored, tucked safely away in the palace dungeons. There he would await his eventual trial. But luckily for Brighid, his trial and sentencing would be far enough away that she could get some information about him. And with no Mòrag around to question why she was questioning the prisoner, this was her best opportunity.

“Let me guess: they finally decided to have you come bump me off to spare the Empire the expense of a trial,” Cor said bitterly. 

“The Jewel of Mor Ardain’s flames are too valuable for someone with your slimy skin, Baragh. You’re not even worthy of being killed by me.”

“You’re a fiery one. Almost as fiery as your mistress. What is it you want? Or are you just here to gloat?”

“You were once affiliated with the Aramach, and yet you defected to save your own skin. You slipped out of their fortress in Crá Gleann.”

Brighid didn’t bother to phrase it as a question or a demand for information. She kept her flames in check, too. Something told her that Cor Baragh was not the kind of man who would be easily broken or intimidated. Her usual approach wouldn’t work here. And she was short on time, too. If Mòrag and Zeke got home before she broke him, then Brighid would find herself in the throes of a very complicated conversation. The conversation would have to happen at this point. But if she could locate and kill Pachnall—or at least capture him—that conversation would be much easier.

“Yeah, I was there. What about it?”

“You know Pachnall, then.”

“Yes. He’s a manipulative bastard.”

On that point, Brighid agreed with Baragh; hopefully she could play off that hostility. 

“Indeed. Escaping a hideout he built—that had to have been quite the feat. How did you manage it?”

Cor paused. He twiddled his thumbs for a moment. “You want to know how to get in there, don’t you? You might as well say so out loud.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“I know you think I’m scum, but you can drop the condescending act. Pachnall and I weren’t exactly friends. And I can understand why you of all people would want him dead. I’m no fool. I put the pieces together.”

There was no use hiding; if Cor knew enough to try to get Uraya to blackmail her Driver into a risky one-on-one duel, then he probably knew everything. _How_ he learned that information, though...

“What all did he tell you?” Brighid asked. “Who else has he told?”

“He didn’t even tell me. Not explicitly. I figured it out on my own.”

“How?”

“Some young woman named Caelyn. He tortured her, used her to learn who the kid emperor belonged to. And then with the way he fixates on the Inquisitor—it only makes sense that she’s his mother. Putting two and two together, I think I can gather why you’d want him dead.” 

“...I had a chance to kill him. I should have,” Brighid began. Why was she even admitting this to Cor? She’d been so cautious to hide the truth for so long, only to spill her guts to a common criminal? Maybe it was that Cor, a man overflowing with shortcomings and failings, couldn’t fault her for her own. But she continued anyway. “He hurt my Driver. He nearly ruined her. And in the one chance I had to make him pay—I did the _right_ thing and let him go to trial. Which ultimately allowed him to escape. I will not let him come back to haunt her, even if I damn my own core to Morytha in the process.”

“Which has brought you here. To me.”

“His band of Aramach is completely entrenched in Crá Gleann. You’re the only one who’s gotten in or out without detection.”

“Why would the Jewel of Mor Ardain want to avoid detection? Your Driver is the Flamebringer. She felled a Flesh Eater without you. Why bother with subtlety when you can simply raze it all?”

“Crá Gleann is a delicate region.”

“But once you’re on his airship, it doesn’t matter. So why try to avoid detection?”

Brighid frowned. Of course he would ask that.

“Ah, I see what’s going on here. You don’t intend to take your Driver along. She doesn’t know that he’s alive, does she?”

“She knows that the leader of the Aramach is a force to be reckoned with. She does not know why.”

“So you’ve come to me. What makes me think I would help you? Sure, I hate Pachnall, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have any friends in there. He still has my Blade, too. So if I’m to betray those old mates, you’ll have to give me more than a pretty speech. Can you make me some sort of deal? Help me avoid the firing squad?”

“...I’d be hard pressed to convince anyone to reduce the severity of your sentence. Lady Mòrag least of all. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to execute you herself,” Brighid sighed. 

In normal circumstances, a deal for a criminal like Cor in exchange for the leader of a crime syndicate—typically, the Empire _might_ cut a deal for such valuable information. But any such bargain would need approval from the Emperor. Niall might be convinced, but there was no way to keep the young sovereign from telling his Inquisitor about it. 

Cor stared at her expectantly.

“If your information pans out, I promise I’ll do what I can to improve your sentence,” she said at last. “I swear on my core.”

“So, you expect me to betray the most dangerous man on Elysium on account of nothing more than an empty promise? Swearing on your core? Surely you have a better appeal than that.”

Brighid resisted the urge to smack him with two blazing hands. “I _would_ try to appeal to your humanity, but since you show no remorse, I’m afraid that isn’t an option.”

Cor spat. “As if a _Blade_ has any right to appeal to humanity. You’re not even a human yourself.”

 _That_ gained him a sharp slap. His cheek gleamed red from both the impact and the fire. Blisters bubbled at the skin where her palm struck hardest. 

“I am more human than you can ever possibly hope to be!” she exclaimed, barely reining in her temper. “The joys, the heartbreaks, the bonds, the loss—I have lived it all. I have watched people like you toy with the lives of people like Mòrag and the Emperor. I have seen firsthand the ruin your kind cause. Ten women, Cor. _Ten._ If you could see the devastation you’d caused those innocent women, if you had wept and cried with them and tried to snatch them from the brink of self-destruction...if you saw what I’ve seen, you’d do anything to bring the man responsible to justice.”

“I’m not going to off myself on account of a little guilt.”

“Not even your death could pay adequate recompense for what you did, Baragh. You’ve acted like a monster. But help me infiltrate Pachnall’s hideout, and you can do something good for once. You can prove to yourself that there’s some small shred of humanity deep within yourself.”

“...Fine. I’ll tell you what I know.” Cor said at last. “But not because I give a damn about conscience or humanity.”

“Why, then?” 

“Because I hate Pachnall. And I also hate Mor Ardain, especially you and your precious Inquisitor. If you all want to tear each other apart, I’m not going to stand in the way. It’ll be fun to watch.”

Not exactly the answer she was hoping for, but it would have to do. “Start talking.”

* * *

“Are you sure we shouldn’t get some dinner first? Your stomach has been growling for nearly an hour now.”

“There’s just a little bit left in this chapter, right? And it’s the last one. Keep going.”

Mòrag nodded and took a swig of water before continuing. When Zeke had first asked her to read aloud to him, it had seemed silly. After all, it would have been faster for him to read the book silently on his own. But when he’d sweetly said he enjoyed the story more when it came from her voice, it had been hard to refuse him. And there was something soothing about lying there in the grass with her head in his lap while he reclined against a tree, listening. The waves lapping against the nearby provided the perfect backdrop, too. It almost reminded her of the days she used to read aloud to Niall after a day playing in Lake Yewtle. 

The book itself—her childhood favorite recounting of Emperor Hugo’s life—had proven to be quite the conversation starter for them from page one. The first chapter sparked a conversation about childhoods in their respective countries, from methods of teaching and discipline to national traditions. Chapter three prompted them to discuss education and combat training. The ninth led to recounting the stories of their first resonances with their Blades (unsurprisingly, Zeke’s story was markedly more dramatic). The eleventh chapter brought them to compare and contrast Addam and Hugo, from their favorite foods to fighting styles, and of course, why Tantal idolized the former and Mor Ardain the latter. 

Thanks to those discussions, it had taken them more than two weeks to work through the story. But Mòrag didn’t mind. Fonsett was hypnotic, and even before they’d reached Elysium, it had soothed her unlike any other locale. Today, with a new sense of security, both from an unsinkable continent and this new, still-budding relationship, she felt more at ease than she’d ever thought possible. Mor Ardain, the duties of the Special Inquisitor, even training for combat—the tides pulled all the worries away. For now, this was all that mattered. 

Today’s chapter, however, hadn’t sparked much discussion—at least, not for the moment. It was far too somber:

_Even over the settling rubble, the young emperor could still be heard, gasping for breath. If injustice had a sound, it was those choked exhales—the splutters as the air found no purchase in his punctured lungs._

_“Brighid. Aegaeon. Forgive me,” Hugo coughed. “For you to fall like this...I’m sorry. You deserve a more glorious end than this.”_

_The Jewels looked at each other, each taking one of their Driver’s hands in their own. There was so much that could be said: it was the Aegis’s fault, and yet, it wasn’t. Mythra had lost herself in a haze of grief and agony, not knowing that her rampage tore apart friend and foe alike. But at the same time, the Aegis knowingly did what was necessary to stop Malos’s deadlier rampage. If their places had been exchanged, the Jewels would have done the same._

_Mythra was not to blame. Malos was. But by some cruel irony, the only one begging for forgiveness was their own master, a proud king who’d been reduced to collateral damage._

_Hugo never even flinched—not even when his petite frame took the full assault of the Tornan Titan’s exploding core. Mor Ardain firmly believed that in a moment of crisis, one’s true colors would be revealed. And Emperor Hugo’s colors were the noblest of them all: the deep crimson of heroism. Throwing himself in front of Prince Addam had been more natural than breathing._

_Hugo was dying. They all were._

_Normally, that thought would scare a human. It ought to frighten a Blade, too. But for the Emperor and his Jewels, there was no fear. Hugo’s heroic actions left his Blades too stunned, too awed to be angry. Too grateful that they had the honor of serving such a gallant Driver. Yes, it had been a short life. But it was a good one. For Blades, it was never in the number of days lived, nor the splendor of the final battle. The best of a life came in the quality of the days lived—and each day with Hugo was an honor._

_If only Hugo could see what it meant to them to be his right hand and his left. What it meant them to serve the great Empire._

_Aegaeon spoke first. “To fall the same day as Malos...to return to my core as a hero’s Blade...I can think of no end more glorious, Your Majesty. I would gladly die a thousand deaths like this at your side.”_

_“You will go down in history as the greatest warrior king the Empire has ever had. Mor Ardain will sing your praises for generations,” Brighid added._

_Hugo coughed again. His face was even paler now, and his eyelids flickered._

_“I always wanted...to put myself on the line. I never needed the Empire to remember me,” he gasped. “All I want now...is for my Blades to remember me. To be forgotten by...the ones I loved most—”_

**_That_ ** _was always the hardest part about dying._

_“We won’t really forget you,” Brighid said reassuringly, even though tears lined the edge of her voice. “I’ve recorded all these adventures in my journals. I’ll read them again, and I’ll tell Aegaeon everything we did. You will always have a place in our cores, Your Majesty.”_

_“I wonder...will I be able to see you as part of the great ether stream?” Another cough, weaker this time. “Or will my soul fade within that river of those who’ve gone before?”_

_“‘A Driver and Blade are one in body and soul,’” Brighid recited. “If your soul joins the great ether stream, so do ours. Our bodies might remain here, but we will always be with you.”_

_“No matter what,” Aegaeon added._

_Hugo managed a small smile, sighed peacefully, and died a hero._

“It’s a bit more melodramatic than I remember it being when I was younger,” Mòrag said at last. “But that was one of my favorite stories.”

“I can see why,” Zeke commented, slipping a hand into hers now that she’d put the book down. “It’s gotta be weird to read about Brighid like this.”

“The first time I read it, I never expected she’d be bonded with me. But she’s so different in this lifetime that it’s hard to even consider her the same person.”

“...She certainly seems less harsh with Mythra in this go-round.”

“Does Tantal have any stories or legends with Pandoria in them? I know she’s an heirloom of sorts.”

Zeke shook his head. “Nope. Our only real folklore is Addam. Not that that’s surprising. Everyone has their own heroes, eh?”

Her free hand found its way to his cheek. He smiled at the touch; her thumb traced one of his dimples. The fear that this was all too good to be true was gradually vanishing, just as the bitter voice was fading into the back of her memory. It surfaced now and then, but Mòrag found it hard to hear it anymore. The good memories they’d built over the last few weeks overpowered it. 

Maybe they’d never have a perfect, fairytale relationship like Rex and Pyra and Mythra. They would probably still have their fights, and maybe there would be days when the past refused to be forgotten. But somehow, thanks to Zeke, that past didn’t seem quite as scary or shameful anymore.

Everyone had their own heroes indeed.

“I think I might have found mine,” she whispered. 

His stomach growled again, gurgling beside her ear. Maybe it was time to be getting back to the cabin they’d borrowed, courtesy of Rex and his Blades. Corrine had probably left some food outside for them (Rex’s aunt had insisted on dropping off meals each day, despite their protests otherwise). And perhaps it was time to head back home, too.

“How long have we been away, exactly?” she asked at last, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s getting close to three weeks.”

 _Three._ Such a long vacation, but it had gone by so fast. Brighid never sent word, so Niall must have been all right alone during the peace talks. It would be easy to stay another three weeks, reveling in that haze of both passion and relaxation. She wasn’t quite sure which she liked more: the sex or the simple pleasure of being on an overindulgently long vacation. But at least only one of those things had to come to an end. 

“You miss Niall, don’t you?”

Zeke was getting quite adept at reading her facial expressions.

“I’ve been away from him for far longer than this before.”

“I don’t mind if you do, you know. He’s still your kid. I’m not going to be jealous if you want to be back with him.”

“...I’ve given your offer a lot of thought. If anyone found out about him—would you still be willing to adopt him?”

“I meant every word.”

“...If it ever comes to that, then we’ll do it. But only if Niall agrees.”

“You got it.”

Hopefully it never came to that. But if it did...having someone to share the burden wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write part of this as an excuse to bring Kora back into the story? Maybe. It's always fun having the Aegis Gang & Co. cause trouble, anyway.
> 
> But...*shakes head* Brighid, Brighid, Brighid. 
> 
> Provided I can get about 2k words written today and tomorrow, I will have met my goal for writing 50k words over the month of November! Yay me. I hope you've enjoyed the faster updates this month...buuuuuut I'll probably be slowing back down to my normal update schedule of every 7-10 days now. We'll see.


	24. Hopes, Fulfilled & Dashed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Well, that was fast. ;)

Not for the last time did Brighid curse her own hesitancy.

It had been foolish to hope that Mòrag and Zeke would be gone for much longer. Three weeks was a record-setting vacation for the Inquisitor, after all. To think that she had maybe a week to get in and out of Crá Gleann without Mòrag knowing...Brighid never should have waited so long to question Cor. But with all the proceedings surrounding the peace talks, what choice did she have? Now her window of opportunity to slip away was all but gone. 

Maybe she should just leave, do the deed, and explain it to Mòrag after the fact. Apologies could come later, couldn’t they?

But Mòrag and Zeke’s return prompted her to put the excursion on hold for a while. Simply having Mòrag back in the same building was soothing. And something about Mòrag’s presence felt different. Sure, there were the obvious things: the faint bronze tone to her skin after weeks of sun exposure; the fact that she occasionally wore her hair down on calmer days; and the tired but satisfied gleam in her eyes. But there was something else, too. Something more meaningful that Brighid couldn’t quite place. 

Despite the sheer length of the Inquisitor’s leave of absence, life at Alba Cavanich regained a sense of normalcy rather quickly. For a while, that “new normal” was just as busy as the previous one. As always, the peace, once won, required implementation. During the peace conference, Niall had formally agreed to cede Gormott its independence over a three-year period. The process wouldn’t begin until the first of the year, but until then, the palace hummed with the activity necessary to make good on that promise. Officers filed in and out of the Inquisitor’s office to discuss dismantling military outposts within the region. Senators and counselors met with the Emperor to formalize the arrangement into law. And once a week, there was a progress report for the siege against the Aramach. It always came back the same: progress was slow, but it was working. 

A year ago, Mòrag would have thrown herself into the work relentlessly, hardly bothering to sleep or eat. But now, she was finding a balance. Of course, it wasn’t an instantaneous change; one of the most frequent arguments the Inquisitor and the Tantalese prince had was where to draw the line between discipline and a healthy dose of relaxation (they never did  _ quite  _ figure out a perfect compromise). Usually, Mòrag’s stubborn sense of duty won out. But it was tempered, and everyone in the palace noticed it.

Now the Ardainian military had the necessary forces to sustain the siege line without the help of the Garfont Mercenaries. So Rex, the Aegis, Nia, Tora, and the others all gradually went their separate ways. Rex and Pyra and Mythra returned to Fonsett village. Tora and Poppi joined Professor Tatazo in his new private Blade factory within Mor Ardain’s industrial district. Meanwhile, Nia and Dromarch found a little chateau in Gormott; word on the street was that Nia might be invited to serve on the council that would one day become the independent Gormotti government. The Flesh Eater instantly turned up her nose at the idea, protesting that she wouldn’t be “a big cheese in that high-society circus.” But when both the Emperor and the Special Inquisitor added their own recommendations to that arrangement—it would be good for strong international relations—she promised to  _ consider  _ it. 

But no matter where they went, everyone promised to visit, of course. 

“With  _ both  _ Mòrag and Brighid and Zeke and Pandoria here, it’ll be even easier to have reunions!” Rex hollered on his way out. “See you guys soon!”

As expected, Niall’s decision to cede Gormott its independence met with resistance in the Senate. But with the cooperation of Byrne of Ceartas and the new head of the Gardic party—zealous background checks ensured that this new party leader was far above reproach—he was able to overrule the legislature by decree. Niall’s popularity among the Senators still remained complicated, but for now, his position was secure.

Life became, in a word, the simplest it had been in years—how Elysium was meant to be. And for two months or so, it stayed that way. So when Zeke’s birthday rolled around, Mòrag found herself with enough spare time to plan how to celebrate. Normally, when Niall’s birthday came, she spent two weeks in advance pestering Brighid for ideas; picking ideal gifts or, Architect forbid planning a party, was not her strong suit. But this time, she knew exactly what to do and what to give him. Well, partly. 

It was the act of giving the gift to him that would be the hard part. Would he like it? Nothing for it. She couldn’t exactly delay it much longer. In fact, the anticipation made it hard to concentrate. So she implemented her plan a little sooner than expected.

“We’re not going to join Niall for dinner tonight,” she told him. 

“Why not? It is Thursday, isn’t it?”

“It is. But I...I have something special planned. For just the two of us. We’ll join him tomorrow instead.”

_ Calm down, Mòrag. Quit stressing about it. Everything’s going to be fine.  _

“Something special? Why?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You’ve only been hinting that your birthday is coming up for the last  _ three weeks.  _ So we’re celebrating.” 

“Was it that obvious?” Zeke grinned childishly. Of course he knew it was obvious. Obvious was exactly what he was going for.

“You have all the subtlety of a safe falling from a fourth-story window. I got the hint. So let’s go.”

“But hang on, my birthday isn’t for another two days.”

“...I wanted to celebrate a little early,” Mòrag replied. “You’ll see what I mean in a bit. Just trust me, all right?”

He nodded, but curiosity lined his expression. She led him through the palace hallways, ignoring his nagging questions the entire way. He could be like a child sometimes, especially with how talkative he could be. 

“What are we doing in the gardens? Did someone kill our flowers again? It wasn’t me. I swear, I checked the weedkiller six times this go round.” 

“I wouldn’t lecture you as part of a birthday celebration, Thunderbolt. And our flowers are fine.”

He opened his mouth to protest a bit further, but at that moment, they rounded the corner to the location of their flowerbed. Contrary to Zeke’s fears, the moon flowers and dawn hydrangeas were healthier than ever. But that wasn’t the surprising bit. Alongside the patch were all the makings of a candlelit picnic: a blanket, cushions, a small kettle of tea, a bottle of champagne and a goblet—just one, he noted—a plate of Addam’s embercakes, a sampler of little sandwiches, and a fruit and cheese plate. A small wrapped box lurked somewhere within that pile.

Only then did he realize that the gardens were uncharacteristically empty—there wasn’t a single soul in sight, not even the grounds workers. She’d planned this out with her usual attention to detail, even going as far as giving the staff the evening off so they could have the garden to themselves. Maybe she was getting better at romantic gestures after all.

“It’s not much, but I wanted us to have some privacy,” she explained a bit sheepishly. 

“Flames, it’s lovely. It’s perfect.”

She smiled and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Well then, happy early birthday. I have your present here, too, but...let’s eat first.” 

Since their first private meal as a married couple, they’d gotten quite good at keeping work out of their dinner conversations. It proved difficult at first, especially for Mòrag, who’d spent the bulk of her life either working through meals or dining with Emperors (not exactly an environment for riveting conversation). But these days, their no-work conversations flowed naturally: childhood stories, theories about the afterlife, embarrassing mishaps (Zeke had the majority of those), awkward distant relatives...just about anything.

Tonight, however, Mòrag seemed to slip back into her less talkative self. Zeke watched as she crammed an embercake into her mouth, chewing it rapidly even though the spices made her eyes water.  _ That  _ was odd. Mòrag hated spicy food. But she picked up another cake without really looking at it and set to chewing again. Was she...spacing out? Picnic or not, it was unusual for Mòrag to abandon her usual table manners.

“You okay there?”

She gulped down another chunk of embercake. “I’m fine. Never better,” she said hurriedly. But her eyes glanced across the picnic blanket at the wrapped present.

“Chew a bit slower or you’ll choke.”

“I-I didn’t get a full breakfast this morning, so I’m a bit hungrier than usual. I suppose.”

What? But he’d seen her eat a decent amount of food. Odd.

“Mòrag, what’s got you so out of sorts? I thought we were supposed to be celebrating, but you’re being weird.”

She frowned but didn’t refute his claim. “Can we talk about this after we’ve eaten? Please?”

“...Okay.”

‘Upset’ wasn’t the right word for how she was acting. ‘Nervous’ was a bit closer, but still not quite right. Because underneath the fidgeting—she actually twiddled her thumbs instead of thrusting her hands behind her back—behind that nervous movement, there were vestiges of excitement, or something. 

At last they started on the last course of cheese and fruit (neither of them were huge fans of sweets, so it made for a nice substitute for dessert, and not even Mor Ardain’s chefs could ruin cheese and produce). Mòrag poured a glass of champagne and handed it to him, then filled a teacup for herself. He looked at her quizzically. 

“I-I’d rather have tea tonight,” she replied, not meeting his gaze. Then she seemed to gather her courage again. She clinked her cup against his glass. “A toast to you. May this year be your best one yet.”

“ _ Our  _ best one yet,” he corrected. Then he downed the entire glass in a great gulp.

“Would you like to open your present now?” she murmured. 

But before he could answer one way or another, she handed the package to him. It was small, and compared to most gifts given by the royal household, poorly wrapped. Maybe she’d wrapped it herself. 

“I originally planned on giving you something else, but...well, I think you’ll like this much better. I hope you will.”

He nodded and dug his fingers into the wrapping paper. Mòrag took a deep breath. For some reason, the thought of his potential reactions to the gift had kept her up all night. And now that the moment was here, she wished he would tear it just a little slower. Maybe she didn’t feel as ready for this as she had this morning.

The paper fell away to reveal a nondescript box; it was her way of forcing him to open it and look at it properly. The lid popped off, and there was a sharp inhale when he got the first glance of the contents. His fingers quivered as he picked it up. It looked so tiny in his hands, but one would think it weighed a ton by the way he held it. Architect, could he read it properly in the lamplight?

His eye darted from her to the plastic in his hand and back again. 

“F-Flames, I’m not seeing things, am I? There’s...there’s two lines here, right?”

She nodded.

“And does that mean what I think it means?”

“Yes.”

The used test clattered onto the plate beside him. “You’re—we’re—”

“Pregnant.”

He swallowed hard. “B-b-but we’ve only been having sex a couple months. That can’t be right.”

She huffed through her nose, barely containing the laugh that was surfacing. “Technically, all it takes is one time. And I haven’t had a cycle since you got back from Tantal. We were efficient, I guess.”

He scowled, then smiled, then scowled again. “Shit, that was fast. Are you totally sure?”

“Absolutely. I recognized the signs, and Brighid confirmed it for me. I...I really only used the test stick so I could wrap it up and give it to you.”

He kept glancing back and forth between her face and her belly, as if staring long enough might make the information register in his mind. 

“I’m going to be a dad.” The words came out in a whisper, his tone somewhere between shocked terror and excitement. But the more he repeated the phrase, the terror faded, replaced with his usual over-the-top volume. “I’m gonna be a dad!”

Shouting. That was more like him.

But then the grin faded again. “...Wait. Mòrag, how do  _ you _ feel about all this?”

A complicated question, that. After the relief and exhilaration of their first intimacy had worn off, Mòrag realized that this was a distinct possibility. She’d never bothered with birth control; out of personal principle, she avoided medications whenever she could. And until now, she never needed or wanted it, given that she’d held everyone—especially men—at arm’s length for years. And it would have been counterintuitive to the whole purpose for their arranged marriage if she changed that habit. So this was...well, this was just how things went.

But when the first wave of nausea hit, she’d spent the better part of an hour locked in the bathroom. The morning sickness, the dull ache in her breasts, the slight moodiness—all the sensations unearthed memories she would have rather kept buried. Even her scars seemed to itch at the memories. And of course, the nightmarish voice in her head had used the opportunity to force itself back into her consciousness. 

This wasn’t like the first time, she’d reminded herself. But to reassure herself of that fact, she’d crawled back into bed with Zeke and lingered there. After an hour or so of cuddling, her heart rate finally calmed down. Then she went to ask Brighid if she could detect a second ether signature, just to be sure. 

Now, she was caught somewhere between relief, guilt, excitement, and trepidation. A lot of thoughts ran through her head simultaneously. First, there was sheer relief that this pregnancy was intended. Expected, even. She didn’t have to hide it. This had always been the whole point of their marriage: a blood heir with no questions of legitimacy. No matter what, the Senate couldn’t question this child’s right to the throne. Nealon had seen to that in her adoption papers. And yet, with that relief came a sense of guilt. Her pregnancy with Niall...she’d never felt happy—and this time, there  _ was  _ happiness mixed in with all the other emotions, she realized—his impending birth had never sparked joy. How could she feel happy now? Was she picking favorites by succumbing to her sense of joy at the news? Would the child from her marriage somehow taint her fondness for him? Surely not, but even the mere possibility of that made her feel like she betrayed him. He never chose the circumstances surrounding his birth; it didn’t seem fair to him to celebrate her second pregnancy more than the first. But she couldn’t help it, either.

Explaining all that to Zeke was challenging. 

“I-I was scared at first. I still am, honestly,” she admitted at last. “Everything has happened so quickly. And even though I  _ know  _ things are different this time around, there are moments when it all comes rushing back. But despite that, I...it feels right. When I remember that this baby’s  _ yours _ , everything feels safe again. He or she is living proof of how much I’ve healed. Proof that I can be loved, and that I can love in return. Granted, it’s a bit sooner than I would have chosen, but...it’s proof that things  _ can  _ get better.”

“So you’re happy about it, then? At least, sort of?”

“Despite it all, I’m—I’m thrilled, Zeke.”

He stood and pulled her into a fierce hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in a circle. The sudden motion made her laugh, which made him laugh, too. In less than a minute, they were giggling like children. 

“Damn, we’re going to have a cute kid.”

“Okay, stop spinning. You’re going to make me sick.”

He caught himself and stopped short. “Sorry! I just—this is great news. I’m shocked, but it’s awesome.”

“I can hardly believe it myself.”

He still didn’t set her down, his eye searching hers. “Gosh, you’re amazing, Flames. I love you.”

For some reason, the kiss felt different this time: shared surprise, a bit of anxiety, and just as much excitement—like their connection was deeper now. Deep down, they both realized it felt similar to resonating with a Blade. There was that same tug deep in their chests, the pull, the rush, the magnetism. But instead of ether, the connection was quite literally physical...and the physical embodiment of their bond would take far longer to form than a Blade. But that only increased the anticipation.

The smell of something burning ruined the moment. In his spinning glee, Zeke had kicked over the one of the candles. And now the picnic blanket was engulfed in flames.

* * *

_ I’m actually relieved that my Driver went away for a few days. I’m  _ **_glad_ ** _ she left. What is my life coming to?  _

Mòrag wasn’t the only one dealing with nausea these days; whenever someone mentioned the word “Aramach,” Brighid’s stomach did a somersault. That sick sensation had lessened the second Mòrag and Zeke left for Tantal, though. They would only be gone a few days; Zeke insisted on telling his father the good news in person, and with Niall’s leave, Mòrag accompanied him. It would be tight, but their absence ought to leave Brighid just enough time to track down Pachnall and get back. Then the secrecy could end. 

Despite the couple’s best efforts to keep the news of their pregnancy under wraps until family members were told—including Rex, Nia, and the others, since both Mòrag and Zeke regarded their companions as family—Hardhaigh Palace buzzed with excitement at the news. Pandoria was partly to blame for the leaked information. Or maybe it was simply the fact that the Emperor grinned from ear to ear at the mere thought of being an uncle. But regardless of the cause, Brighid now had the window of opportunity she’d been waiting for. 

Protecting Mòrag was all Brighid had ever known. Now there was simply more of her to protect. And if it took razing the Aramach’s entire valley to eliminate Pachnall, she’d do it. Even if it meant scouring her core crystal in the process—which seemed more likely than not. Cor’s information would give her a fighting chance, but even so, this resembled a suicide mission.

But the fear of not saying goodbye, of leaving without a single explanation was too strong. And the words to a letter came pouring out of her pen before she could stop them.

_ My dearest Mòrag, _

_ If you’re finding this letter, then it’s likely the worst has come to pass. But there are things I must confess, and I regret that I never had the courage to say them directly. _

_ I’ve failed you, my lady. In the interest of confidentiality, I will not pen my full confession here. But you know where my journal is hidden. If I do not return, go to my chambers. Find it. Read it. In those pages, you’ll find my sins laid bare. And while I will not dare to assume your forgiveness, I must beg you for it.  _

_ I’m going to Crá Gleann to atone for my wrongdoings. If I don’t return, please don’t come looking for me. The risk to you, and now your unborn child, is too great. _

_ Serving as your Blade has been the utmost privilege, Mòrag. Blades were created to form bonds with humans, to live with them in harmony. But “bond” doesn’t quite do it justice. You are my family, my friend, my everything. My true Driver. As ever, I am but a humble student of your greatness. You are a beacon of strength and resilience, and I know deep in my core that you will be a wonderful mother. I only wish I could be there to see it. _

_ I pray that someday, you’ll find a way to forgive me. Everything I ever did was to protect you, to see you safe and sound again. And by the Architect’s grace, you are whole once more. It’s a dream come true for me. So what I do now, I do to protect that dream.  _

_ Ever your devoted Blade, _

_ Brighid _

After a little puff of fire to melt the wax seal, she set the letter on top of Mòrag’s desk and left the office. With any luck, she could burn the letter and explain in person once they were both home again. But if not, at least the truth wouldn’t go unsaid. She’d dug herself into too deep of a hole to back out now. If this expedition was her grave, then sobeit—as long as it was Pachnall’s grave, too.

And so she set out. 

One of the greatest advantages to being the Inquisitor’s most trusted Blade was the near-comprehensive access to Imperial airships on demand. Her position also granted her the right to silence soldiers with a gag order. So when she arrived at Crá Gleann, she was well within her rights to demand that two men fly her to the cliff overlooking the depth of the valley. 

“Return to your posts on the perimeter,” she ordered once they arrived at the destination. 

Despite her turmoil a few hours earlier, now she felt calm, collected. The battlefield had always been a soothing place to her. 

“When would you like us to circle back, Lady Brighid?”

She shook her head. “I will not require a secondary escort. You have done your duties admirably. Thank you. You are excused to return to the perimeter...And gentlemen?”

“Ma’am?”

“Under no circumstances are you to speak of this to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, I was never even here. Understood?”

“Perfectly, ma’am. Best of luck.”

The view from the top of the cliff was almost impressive: dozens of grounded airships, making their last stand against the Empire’s might. Clouds of dust swirled about in the wind, joined by little clouds of ether fumes as the last vestiges of Mor Ardain’s energy continued to seep out. Perhaps in another few months, the area would stabilize; Brighid could tell that not much energy remained in the Titan’s core. Perhaps something had caused the decay to speed up? A few months ago, when she first visited, Mor Ardain still had a fair amount of energy to decay away. She’d checked. Now, it was far lower, as if it had been sucked away instead of being allowed to disperse naturally. Why was that?

Not that it mattered now. She needed to focus on the Artigo. Getting in should be relatively easy thanks to the rapidly fading sunlight and Cor’s information. But this elevated position was tempting; why not just summon an enormous fireball and let the entire valley explode? Yes, the resulting fumes would unleash toxic gasses, but she  _ could  _ order the Ardainian line to withdraw. That would take away the collateral damage, and Pachnall would surely perish in the blast. 

_ No. I need to look him in the eye when I kill him.  _

Cor’s instructions echoed through her mind as she descended the cliff face, dimming her flames as she went. This would be much easier if she looked like a common Blade. Putting a damper on her own appearance felt debasing. But hopefully, it would be worth it when she ran Pachnall through. Only then did the thought register that maybe, Cor had intentionally given her false information. What if he wanted to lead her into a trap? He’d said in no uncertain terms that he hated Mor Ardain, and her personage was an Ardainian symbol. But he also claimed he hated Pachnall, too. But as her feet met solid ground again—it was a grueling descent—she pushed the thought away. Even if Cor hoped to get her caught, she stood within the valley itself now. It was far too late to back out.

She hesitated, back pressed hard against the cliff wall as she watched the patrols weaving in and out of the host of grounded airships. One last sentry should face the man opposite him, and then after he made a left turn, there would be a window of opportunity: seventy seconds to slip through. After that, the patrol would cycle through for another fifteen minutes before the opening presented itself again.

There it was. Maybe Cor’s information would pan out after all.

But still she waited. Better to confirm the length of the patrols, just to be safe. She only got one shot at this. 

Seconds ticked by, agonizingly slow. Aimless thoughts flashed in her brain, like little enemies trying to distract her. At least it wasn’t raining tonight. Would Mòrag have a girl or a boy? She hoped for a girl. And what would the child call the family Blades—aunts and uncles? Auntie Brighid did have a nice little ring to it. By now, the others probably knew the good news, which meant that Kora and Mythra were probably already shopping for baby gifts, dragging a clueless Rex along with them. And Zeke had likely assembled a massive list of potential names, each one more audacious than the last. Mòrag probably hadn’t given it a second thought yet.

_ Focus. For her sake, get this right. It should be two more minutes now. _

The next distracting thoughts weren’t as pleasant. Memories of a much younger Mòrag, hugging her knees in fear. The pathetic whimpers she made in the throes of a nightmare. The sight of her unconscious and bleeding. The injustice of it all. The fault of Brighid’s own negligence. It could not happen again.

The nearest guard made his turn a second time. There was the opening again. Perfect.

For the next hour or so, she repeated the process: sneaking past sentries only to duck behind a crate or underneath a ship’s wing to wait until the next opening presented itself. She meticulously followed Cor’s prompts; to her relief, he’d described each step perfectly. His attention to detail certainly explained why he managed to evade the law for so long. Some of the openings in the sentry rotation were so subtle that even her own keen eyes struggled to spot them. For a human to manage it merited a tiny sliver of respect.

Only when she finally stepped foot on the Artigo did she relax a bit. Ardainian airships she understood. She knew them well; the saying “once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all” aptly described the Ardainian fleet—even fifteen-year-old ships like this one. Granted, the hardware and technology changed, but the skeleton of ships within the fleet remained the same. The layout almost perfectly matched the modern vessels. Which meant that Pachnall could be found in the captain’s quarters on the upper level, the tactics room on the lowest floor, or the bridge. Based on Cor’s information, that last option was the most likely spot; apparently Pachnall treated it like some sort of throne, where he could wield his influence while looking down on the men he “rescued.”

She drew her swords, doubtful she could avoid a fight in these cramped corridors. But the deeper she ventured into the belly of the airship, the less she seemed to need them. Precious few sounds echoed through the corridors—just the hum of the lighting overhead.

Where was everyone? Surely there ought to be guards milling about. Or did Pachnall refuse to have them, proudly insisting that no one would make it this far into his makeshift fortress? Cor didn’t have much to say about the security within the Artigo itself. If Cor could be believed, he’d been granted his own airship to manage when the Aramach entrenched themselves in Crá Gleann. And as a result, he’d only entered the Artigo when called upon—an increasingly rare occurrence towards the end. 

At last, she arrived at the final staircase leading up into the bridge. 

_ Architect, please let me find him sitting in the captain’s seat.  _

She reached out into the ether. The energy hummed back at her, rich and plenteous. She could summon plenty of flames here. And fast, if need be. Good.

One halting step on the staircase. The metal screeched underfoot. She inhaled sharply, waiting for a guard above to investigate the noise. But no response came. She took two long breaths to ensure the coast was clear then burst up the stairs with as light of footsteps as she could manage. 

At first glance, the bridge was completely empty, its only occupants the idle machines used to control it while airborne. Damn. At this time of night, she ought to have checked the captain’s quarters first. Ambushing him in his sleep didn’t make for a glorious tale, but...this wasn’t a tale she wanted told much, so what did it matter? As long as he paid for what he did, her core could rest easy. One little slice with her sword, and then—

“Brighid. You’re right on time.”

Her heart rate skyrocketed at the sound, and she cursed herself for not sensing his presence. She didn’t need to turn around to know who the speaker was, but she turned anyway. She knew that voice well. He was not the sort of foe to leave her back exposed to. And unfortunately, he wasn’t the foe she hoped to see. And worse, he knew she was coming.

“Ciaran.” Her words dripped with contempt. This was the Ciaran she knew. And even if it had been another incarnation, she still would have hated the sight of him. Of all the Blades to share a rare eye color with. 

“It’s been a long time.”

Architect, he wanted to exchange  _ pleasantries?  _ He never talked much back in Mor Ardain. Why start now? Was he stalling, buying Pachnall time to get away? 

“Where is he?”

“Not even a hello. I see you’re still the arrogant bitch you always were.”

Her whipswords quivered in her hands in a silent warning. “Don’t test me. Answer my question. I will not hesitate to incinerate you.”

Ciaran shook his head and laughed. “You are in no position to make demands, Brighid.”

The Blade made a clicking noise with his tongue. At that signal, two dozen Drivers and Blades seemed to materialize from every available shadow in the bridge—perhaps they were shadows that Ciaran had fabricated using his dark arts. That would explain why she failed to spot them. The ripples in the ether told her that the vast majority of these newcomer Blades and Drivers wielded water. They swarmed her, cutting off every exit. But no one moved to engage her in combat. Instead, they waited for Ciaran’s command, weapons in hand. 

_ No position to make demands indeed _ , she thought. But to yield to these ruffians, especially when she was so close to her goal—that couldn’t happen. And she’d become quite adept at faking confidence. 

“Aren’t I? I know this ship well, Ciaran. We’re one story about the engine room. A single burst of flame from me, and this entire vessel explodes.”

“She wouldn’t,” one of the Aramach whispered.

“She would,” Ciaran answered. His tone mixed equal parts contempt and respect. He could read her anger in every mannerism: the way her sword twitched, the simmering flicker of the flames atop her head, and the deep furrow in her brow. He knew she felt desperate enough to try it.

“Like I said: don’t test me,” Brighid continued. Her eyes darted about the room, poised to react should one of them throw an attack. Nervous flames licked about her fingers, but she let them burn. If nothing else, the sight of them made the Aramach nearest her squirm. 

“Don’t be a fool, Brighid. You want to survive this encounter because I’m about to tell you what you want to know. And the answer will have you rushing back to Mor Ardain. So douse your flames.”

“Where is Pachnall?”

Ciaran grinned. “He’s on his way to Alba Cavanich. To retrieve something that belongs to him.”

Her flames wavered a moment. He wasn’t here? After all the trouble she’d gone to, only to be surrounded by a bunch of worthless lackeys...No. That wasn’t the real issue. If Pachnall was going to the capitol, then—

The Aramach member she’d tortured months ago. What was it he said?

_ “The Boss wants to destroy the Ardainian government. Especially the monarchy.” _

Especially the monarchy. That didn’t mean the crown; it meant the person wearing it. Niall. The realization struck her like a kick in the gut. She’d almost forgotten about that threat; she foolishly hoped that the failed bombing of the Emperor’s flagship, the disposal of Birall, the siege line against the Aramach—all of those achievements ought to have foiled Pachnall’s plans. For him to continue to go against the crown despite all those losses was foolishness, wasn’t it?

_ It’s not the crown he wants. It’s Niall. Damn me—how could I be so stupid?  _

She’d fixated so much on protecting Mòrag from the emotional strain of encountering her abuser that she hadn’t entertained the thought that Niall would still be in danger, too. Now that fixation might cost them both  _ everything.  _

“H-he’ll never make it into the palace. It’s too well guarded. He’ll never make it past her.”

Ciaran chuckled again. “Don’t lie, Brighid. It’s very unbecoming of you. I know full well that Mòrag isn’t at Alba Cavanich.”

“How?”

“For a Blade with a keen eye, you manage to overlook a lot,” Ciaran noted. “Think about it, Brighid. I’m a master of remote ether techniques. And unlike my master, I knew Cor was going to go rogue. So I put an ether bug on him before he left. You never noticed it. He never noticed it. But it helped me learn a great many things.”

Brighid willed her knees not to buckle. “Then, when I was questioning him—”

“I saw and heard everything. I knew it all: your plans to come here alone, the path Cor used to sneak out of this valley. I even saw enough of the palace to know that you didn’t change a thing about the architecture when you rebuilt Hardhaigh. And we both know that Pachnall knows that palace like the back of his hand—all the corridors, the hiding places, the secret passageways. It’s been over fifteen years, but he remembers how to use them.”

“That’s impossible...to power remote observation from such a distance—you don’t have the power necessary to manage such a feat!” Brighid protested. Ciaran was strong, but not that strong, surely.

“No, but a decaying Titan does.”

The startling loss of Mor Ardain’s remaining energy—Ciaran must have siphoned away the leaking energy to power his remote ether techniques. No wonder the decay was faster than predicted. It wasn’t just the environment sucking away the energy deep in the Titan’s core. It was him. Ciaran’s core  _ had  _ come from the Ardainian Titan. He’d exploited that connection and fed his master everything he needed to know. 

The flames licking at her palms burst into full-fledged blazes then. She needed a ride back to the capitol—and now. The Artigo might have been old, but in its prime, it was the pride of the Ardainian fleet. It would be fast enough. And who better to commandeer it than the Jewel of Mor Ardain? 

_ Aegaeon,  _ **_please_ ** _ hold them off long enough for me to get home. Protect him! _

“Naturally, you want to rush back to the palace,” Ciaran commented. “You’ll have plenty to explain to your Driver once the dust settles. And don’t worry. We’ll deliver you back to Mor Ardain just in time for her return. But first, we’re going to entertain you for a few hours. Men. Let’s show her some Aramach hospitality.”

On instinct, Brighid flung up an ether shield. But the torrent of water assaulted her from all sides, slipping between the cracks in her defenses. The air hissed as she tried to burn away the attack to no avail. Flames never hurt a fire Blade, but the moisture burned when it made contact with her skin. The shield faltered, but the water kept coming. Her feet swept out from under her. Pain exploded in her skull as her head crashed into the metal flooring below. 

A glimpse of gold webbing flashed across her blurring vision. An ether net. An instantaneous void formed in her core, cut off from its usual supply of ether. But it was nothing compared to the emptiness in her gut—she failed. Mòrag would never forgive her now. 

That horrifying realization swept her away into the blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I do the mean cliffhanger thing again? Yes. Yes, I did. And I juxtaposed a really happy moment with a really crappy one. But we *are* gearing up for some crucial moments, so. It can't be helped. 
> 
> Bonus points to the person who can guess what I'm thinking of naming the kiddo. Or just entertain me with what silly name suggestions you think Zeke would make. Just for fun.


	25. Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, throughout the week: Gosh, I really need to write so I can finish that chapter and post an update.
> 
> Also me:   
> >ooh, look! Christmas cookie decorating!   
> >hey, what if I wrote an extremely niche crossover of XC2 and Attack on Titan? Morag and Mikasa would make a badass duo, right? Like, what's cooler than one girl with two swords? TWO girls with two swords.  
> >ooh, Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity!  
> >woah, Skyrim!  
> *gets sucked into the black hole of the dark brotherhood*  
> >Dang it, where'd all my free time go?
> 
> The struggle is real sometimes, y'all. I think my subconscious was really dreading writing this one. But here it is.

Mòrag woke to the faint glow of a lit lamp beside her. At first, she paid it no attention; she needed rest, and they would depart for Mor Ardain just after sunrise. And since Brighid, Zeke, and Amelia (the physician jumped at the opportunity to serve as her personal doctor again) had all insisted that she get a bare minimum of six hours’ sleep per night, she knew she ought to ignore it. They wouldn’t accept an unwanted nightlight as a good excuse for not sleeping.

But the rustling of a page prompted her to roll over. Zeke sat, propped up against the headboard reading. When he saw her awake, he let the book fall to his lap, holding his place but keeping the cover from view. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Can’t you sleep?”

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “If the light’s bothering you, turn it out. Your rest is more important than my reading.”

She ignored his admonition to immediately roll back over and sleep again. Her eyelids still felt heavy, but not so heavy as the curiosity that he was awake. Zeke rarely had trouble sleeping. And the last time she found him awake in the middle of the night, he’d quietly expressed his love for her for the first time. So he likely had something on his mind now. 

“What are you reading?”

When he didn’t answer, she reached over and tipped up the book herself to glance at the cover. He tried to stop her, but she caught a good enough glance of the summary blurb— _ from conception thru birth and beyond— _ to realize that it was some sort of parenting or baby self-help book. He wasn’t much of a reader to begin with, but that was far outside his usual genre.

“Did your father give you that? More unsolicited advice?”

Zeke shook his head, clearly a touch embarrassed that she figured it out. “No. I, um, I got it from Hardhaigh’s library.”

Oh. So he was researching. And he had been for days, by the sound of it. “If you have questions, you can ask me, you know.”

“It’s just really embarrassing to be so clueless about it all,” he admitted, shutting the book and setting it on the nightstand. “I mean, I always knew the basic gist of it, but the more I read, the more I feel like I’m getting in way over my head. It kinda boggles my mind that you can just, you know, grow a baby inside of you. And it happens so fast, too. This says that our baby’s like the size of a plum or a nectarine already. And I had no idea the nausea was  _ that  _ bad.”

“It’s actually going away now,” she said reassuringly. “And it wasn’t nearly as bad this time.”

That much was undeniable. Maybe it was simply a benefit of more physical maturity, or the lack of paranoia regarding what other people would think when they found out about the pregnancy. Regardless, the morning sickness was mostly gone, and it wasn’t half as bad as she remembered. A good thing, too, since Amelia already hounded her about healthy weight gain this pregnancy. The physician seemed determined to prevent an early labor, muttering something along the lines of  _ ‘your labor and delivery aged me ten years and I will  _ **_not_ ** _ be risking that again.’ _

“Would you have told me if it was bad?” Zeke asked.

“...Probably not. Morning sickness is perfectly normal, so there’s nothing to do but wait for it to subside.”

“How can you be so calm about all this?”

“Experience begets wisdom, I suppose.”

“I don’t mean being calm about just the pregnancy. I’m talking about being parents, Mòrag. We’re going to be responsible for the life of a little kid.”

“Wait—are you scared?”

She sat up and faced him. The look in his eye was deadly serious. It almost felt dirty to say the word “scared” aloud about her husband. Zeke was a lot of things, but frightened wasn’t usually one of them. He always found ways to make light of the most frightening realities with a little joke. For him to be scared—no wonder he was awake in the middle of the night.

“Yeah, Mòrag. I’m terrified.”

“But I thought you were excited about the baby.” 

The words came out more pitiable than she intended. Only then did she realize how much it meant to her to have someone  _ excited  _ to share this experience with her. Knowing he was happy about it had made the unpleasant memories a little easier to bear. To think that he might be unhappy or even regretting it now...

“Don’t take it the wrong way. I am excited,” he added hurriedly, shaking his head violently at the misunderstanding. “But it’s possible to be excited and bloody freaked out at the same time. I just can’t help but wonder if we’re actually ready for this. As a couple, I mean.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s just so soon. It’s been what, six months since we got married? Sure, we’ve come a long way in that time, but we’re still figuring out how to do  _ us.  _ How to really be on the same page together. To throw a baby on top of everything—”

“Complicates things, I know,” Mòrag agreed. “But it’s nothing we can’t work through, right? And an heir was always the intention. Like you said, we’ve come a long way in just six months. We’ll have nearly half a year before the baby arrives. That’s a generous amount of time. So let’s use it to work on our relationship. To give ‘us’ the concerted effort our child deserves. Thankfully, life is peaceful now. So let’s take advantage of that peace and make sure we’re ready.” 

He nodded, but the furrow in his brow didn’t fade. 

“You know, it’s strange. I’ve always thought that ruling Tantal would be the most important thing I ever did. And that’s still important. But...but now—” His voice faltered, and he brought his hand to her stomach. “Mòrag, I think  _ this,  _ our baby, is probably the most important thing you and I will ever do together. And I’m sure you’ll be a great mom. But me—who am I kidding? I’m not sure I have what it takes to be a good dad.”

“Why not?”

“Do you promise not to laugh?” If her nod reassured him, his face did not show it. “I-I’ve never actually held a baby.”

“Seriously?” She had to blurt the word out as a gut reaction to keep her promise not to laugh. Not one baby in his entire lifetime? “Not even when we visited Fonsett with Rex? Corrine’s place was swarming with children.”

“Nope. Pandy and I always played with the older kids. I didn’t trust my luck to play with the littlest ones.”

Now that she thought about it, she did recall that the children at Fonsett had loved playing hide-and-seek with the Thunderbolt; no matter where he hid, he always found a way to give himself away—a cracking twig, accidentally falling off the cliff into the Cloud Sea, a burp, or a passing adult asking him what he was doing climbing up a tree. The kids liked him and begged him to join their play whenever the Aegis party had a few moments to spare. But he’d never bothered with the toddlers or younger (and to be fair, Pyra usually laid claim to the babes in arms to coo and make faces at them before anyone else could blink). 

“It’s not that hard. Babies are delicate, but they’re not made of glass. You’ll be fine.”

“...I don’t want to be like my dad, Mòrag. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Ah. So this went even deeper than simple inexperience with infants. She took his hands in hers. An uncharacteristic layer of sweat coated them. “If it’s any comfort, I know you’ll be a good father.”

“How can you know that?”

“Back when we were still just engaged, after you saved Niall’s life by getting him on an unmarked skimmer, do you remember what you told me?”

“I said I thought you’d be a good mother. Still believe that.”

“But you also told me why you thought that,” Mòrag continued. “And you said that a good parent is able to give a child an environment where they feel safe and loved, even when everything around them is frightening. And you...you managed to make  _ me _ feel safe and loved again. If you can do that for me, with all of my history, then there’s no reason you can’t do the same for our child.”

“You feel safe with me?”

She nodded again. “I don’t think the bad memories or nightmares will ever go away completely. But when you’re around, it’s easier to overcome them. That’s how I know you’ll be a good father.”

“...Thanks, Flames.”

“Now, why don’t you put that book away and turn out the light? We’ve got a long day of traveling ahead of us tomorrow. We can talk about this more on the way home.”

“Okay.” 

He dogeared his page in his book and set it on the nightstand. But before he turned out the light, he pulled down the covers past her waist. Then he planted the tiniest, gentlest kiss on her belly.

“What are you doing?” Mòrag asked.

“Saying goodnight to the baby.”

“The baby can’t hear you yet, you know.”

“Doesn’t matter.” 

He turned his head as if he were trying to listen for little kicks or movements. Mòrag didn’t have the heart to tell him he wouldn’t hear any yet. The tenderness was too sweet to correct.

“Hey there, little Flamebolt,” he whispered. His breath tickled her skin. “You’re so loved already. And I promise I’m going to try my damned hardest to be the daddy you deserve.”

“Flamebolt.” Mòrag said the nickname aloud. Parts of their own battle monikers mashed together—how very typical. “Normally, I don’t care for your nicknames, but that...that has a nice ring to it.”

She smiled as she brushed an unkempt lock of hair out of his eyes. Yes. Things were very different this time.

* * *

Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. 

Well, not exactly. This water would have quenched her thirst—but there was so much of it rushing at her that opening her mouth to drink would drown her. She’d never been much of a swimmer, but she fared well enough to help. And someone needed her help. They were bobbing about in the waves, sometimes sinking, other times gasping for air. But who was it? Why couldn’t she see them? They were just a few strokes away.

She pulled desperately at the water, ignoring the hiss and burn of it against her skin. But her arms found no purchase amid the tempest. The current tugged her backwards, further and further from the struggling boy. Or was it a girl? 

Nothing made sense.

Something sucked her under the surface. An instinctive scream tore her mouth open, and water rushed in, stabbing at her lungs. There was the horrifying thought that Blades couldn’t drown. If she didn’t surface, she might find herself caught in that limbo state between dying and death. But the person above wasn’t a Blade. They could die. 

...No, she wasn’t in the ocean. She was lying against something cold and hard, and her hands were bound behind her uncomfortably. Judging by the way her limbs tingled, they were ether-blocking cuffs.

Water droplets still seeped out of her dress and hair. She would dry quickly; her infrared radiation would burn away the moisture. But no, they’d been tossing waves of water against her every few minutes to keep her weakened. The ocean had just been a nightmare, a result of their routine dousings. 

Who were  _ they  _ again? She ought to know. And even now, outside the terror of the dream, that person still needed help. She delved deeper into her own thoughts, desperately searching for the explanation for all this. It had to be here somewhere. But the deeper she got, the more waterlogged her thoughts became. 

The waves sucked her under again.

Gasping for air. Fighting the current. Then, stillness. And voices she didn’t recognize.

“Why don’t we just filet the bitch? Torture her? Damn Architect knows anyone here would love to slice her up.”

“The boss has something special in mind for her. Apparently we’re supposed to dump her alive in the Ardainian capitol as soon as he gives us the signal.”

“What the hell? Alive? But that’s like inviting her to come back and roast us.”

“I dunno what he has planned. But he seems to think that sending her back will be more painful than keeping her prisoner here. Some nonsense about psychological torture or whatever.”

“Ardunshit. That man’s losing his mind. He’s gonna get us all killed.”

“It’s either this or prison. I’ll take my chances here.”

Her Driver. Why wasn’t she with her Driver? The Boss. That tidbit was important, too. She knew who he was, and yet his name eluded her. Wasn’t he…? Another deluge of water—real water this time, not the dream—cascaded over her. Pain seared through her as the steam hissed. All conscious thoughts swept away.

* * *

The second their airship rolled into dock at Hardhaigh Palace, Mòrag knew something was wrong. At midday, the tiny imperial port ought to be filled to bursting with activity: merchants delivering choice wares, engineers making routine inspections and repairs, guards patrolling, and ships rambling in and out—everything like ants milling about in an overwhelmingly busy but perfectly controlled flow. But nothing about the current scene spoke “order.” Soldiers restrained merchants as their companions forcibly searched each trade vessel. Nopons squealed angrily at the blatant suspicion, calling it unwarranted. Guards dashed about, eyes peeled for some unknown menace. Incoming ships were denied landing rights, stranded to circle aimlessly in the clouds or find an alternate mooring. And worst of all, the emergency siren blared. 

Mòrag swallowed hard, trying to force down the wave of bile that rose in her throat. An agonizing delay followed while their airship pilot negotiated for clearance to land. For merchant and diplomatic vessels to be denied landing was one thing. But an Ardainian vessel? That could only mean…

Code black. The worst lockdown protocol the military had.

“I’m telling you, this is the Inquisitor’s airship!” the pilot protested over the radio. “Let us land!”

“I’m under strict orders. No dockings under any circumstances. Sorry, sir. Closest place you can dock is the warehouse district.”

Mòrag ripped the receiver from the pilot’s hand. “My orders preempt any previous orders you’ve been given, soldier. Now clear us to land!”

Being a figurehead for the military certainly had its perks sometimes. The airship rolled down its gangplank in a matter of minutes. 

Her feet sprung into action before she told them to. Her back snapped to attention. Her face took its typical impassive expression, a facade to hide the turmoil beneath. Mor Ardain’s Special Inquisitor was required to be a beacon of stability and order, even in a crisis. Whatever caused this chaos, the army needed her to come in and take control of the situation. Despite her own rising sense of panic, she couldn’t fail in that duty. Zeke fell in stride beside her, unusually quiet.

“What’s going on?” she asked the nearest captain, shouting over the din of sirens.

“I don’t know, ma’am. We’ve only been told it’s code black. No details why. Someone inside will know.”

Niall would know. A code black protocol would have him sheltering in place, surrounded by every on-duty member of the Carraig Special Guard. And at this time of day, he’d be in the throne room, tucked away from the nearest windows and sheltered by the bodies of his own guards. Aegaeon would practically be sitting on him to ward off physical harm. 

A code black meant all the elevators would be shut down, meaning they’d have to take the long way around to the throne room. Inside the palace, the chaos was the same. Any non-military personnel stayed put, practically rooted to the spots they’d been in when the sirens went off. Moving was a risk; code black gave soldiers the right to shoot on sight if need be. Thank goodness she was in uniform today. And Zeke, well, he looked like himself. No one would mistake him for an enemy.

Everyone they passed wore the same panicked but ignorant expression. But as they moved further into the palace halls, those expressions morphed from panicked ignorance to something different. Something like fear and worry. And whenever she made eye contact with someone, that worry shifted into the thing she hated least of all.

Pity. 

Her facade wavered. She needed to see the throne room, and her feet couldn’t get there fast enough. 

But when they burst into the room, the relief she’d been anticipating deflated inside her like a popped balloon. There were no guards surrounding the throne. No Niall, either. It was all but deserted—all except for two Blades, one in front of the sovereign’s seat and the other a few feet away. 

Only Pandoria acknowledged their arrival with a tense nod and a questioning expression that told both Drivers she was just as confused as they were. But Aegaeon—impassive, never-rattled Aegaeon—stood staring at his hands. His eyes didn’t blink. And if not for the long cut on his cheek, it would have looked like he was crying. Even when they were close enough to touch him, he didn’t acknowledge them but just kept glaring at that one singular spot on the floor, as if his mere gaze could dissolve it. His wound showed no signs of closing; his entire body was so focused on his thoughts that his subconscious couldn’t focus the ether on healing.

“Aegaeon! What happened?” Mòrag demanded. She gripped him by the shoulders, shaking him. At least the Blade would give her an answer.

The Blade finally snapped out of his trance. “I’m so sorry, my Lady. I tried to protect him, but he was too strong,” he whispered. 

“W-what are you talking about? Aegaeon, give me a straight answer. Why is everyone rushing about in a panic? Everything’s in chaos. What happened?”

“...The Emperor. He’s been kidnapped,” he choked out.

Niall. Kidnapped. That word meant...for a moment, she couldn’t seem to recall what it meant. No, her brain refused to remember the definition of the word. It was bad. That she knew. Very bad if it had Aegaeon on the verge of tears. And now her mind was trying to force her not to process the concept, defending her from something that she knew she didn’t really want to hear.

And then it hit her. 

All at once, the room spun. Her vision dimmed. Every last particle of energy seeped out of her muscles, making it hard to stand. A shrill bell rang in her ears. Someone was talking, but she couldn’t hear them. 

Kidnapped. Captured. 

Her son. 

No. That couldn’t be true. She ensured that he was well guarded even during her absence. Between Aegaeon, Brighid, Pandoria, and his personal security detail, no one should have been able to touch him. Or had she been too complacent lately? Of course she had—asking for so much leave time in the span of a couple months. Irresponsible. Foolish. Stupid. And yet, it wasn’t that. There was something else that she couldn’t quite place. A different cause. One that boiled deep in her gut, threatening to make her vomit. 

“Mòrag. Mòrag, talk to me!”

Zeke shook her shoulders now, much like she had done to Aegaeon only seconds prior. Or had it been an hour prior? 

“Aegaeon, what happened? How did they get past both you  _ and  _ Brighid?”

A pang of realization shone in the Blade’s eyes. “I-I haven’t seen Brighid in days. Nobody knows where she went. So he got the jump on me.”

Brighid wasn’t here? That explained the capture. If the fire Blade had been present, any assailant would have a snowball’s chance in hell—literally—of overpowering her when threatening the Emperor. Brighid had Mòrag’s own protective instincts when it came to Niall; Aegaeon didn’t. And how could he? He couldn’t possibly share his current Driver’s regard for his former Driver when he remained ignorant of that relationship. 

“Damn it, Waterworks,” Zeke interrupted. “Tell us something useful.  _ Who  _ got the jump on you?”

“I don’t know. It all happened so quickly.”

“I  _ just _ found him like this,” Pandoria volunteered. “By then, there was no one here.”

Before Mòrag could gather her cyclone of thoughts, the hall was overrun with soldiers reporting in. Each had found something slightly different: a disturbance in the ether field protecting the palace borders; an unlocked door in one of the secret passages behind the library; two sets of footprints in the tunnel from the Emperor’s personal chambers to the external city wall. 

“Only authorized personnel know about those passages,” said the captain of the Carraig Special Unit. His expression resembled an enraged Feris. “That means that whoever did this was one of us.”

“Or he used to be,” another Carraig guard chimed in. 

“We have Drivers and Blades following the trail already, my lady. Our finest.”

_ Pah! A shitload of good your ‘finest’ did protecting him here. _

No, not the painful voice again. She couldn’t fight it back now. Not when something needed to be  _ done.  _ And yet the only thing happening was a lot of talking. And it all blurred together. She was vaguely aware of Zeke stepping up and giving orders. A good thing, too—the words formed in her brain but refused to come out of her mouth. 

_ I need to go find him. Brighid and I need to rescue him. _

Come to think of it, where was Brighid? That question remained unanswered. So many questions lacked answers. But which one needed answering first? Nothing hurt more than ignorance.

In a matter of minutes, the council chamber was nearly empty again as Aegaeon and the other soldiers rushed off to tackle their assignments. Only she, Zeke, and Pandoria remained. There was little reason to maintain a facade of control anymore, and her body knew it. Her shaking knees finally gave way. Zeke caught her and attempted to pull her to a chair. But she wrapped both arms around him, vaguely hoping that his embrace could mask the trembles coursing through her muscles. She needed warmth right now; everything inside her head was cold. 

“We’ll get him back, Mòrag. He’s going to be fine.”

“But how? We don’t even know who took him. What if they try to hurt him?” The voice didn’t even sound like hers. It was breathy, squeaky, choked. But somehow she managed to force the tears down. She would not, could not start crying in front of Pandoria or Aegaeon.

“Focus on what we do know,” Zeke urged, finally managing to push her into a chair. “We know that they want him alive, right? Otherwise they would have killed him on the spot, not kidnapped him. That gives us time. And we also know that there’s some sort of trail, and we’ll follow it into hell if we have to.”

“Yeah,” Pandoria added. “Once we track the creep down, Zeke and I will paralyze him with the Ultimate Fury Slash of legends, and then you can burn him to death. Then everything will go back to normal faster than Zeke can fall off a cliff.”

“I-I should go. I should help with the search,” Mòrag said feebly. She tried to stand again, but Zeke pushed her back down. 

“Hang on, Flames. That’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t patronize me! I’m only a few months into my pregnancy. It’s not slowing me down yet. I’m fine. The baby’s fine.”

“This isn’t about the baby. I’m trusting you to know your limits on that. But stop and think for a minute, Mòrag. You saw how chaotic everything is right now. We gotta get everyone back under control, or Hardhaigh’s gonna implode on itself. And with the Emperor out of commission temporarily, who’s technically in charge?”

“...Me.”

Zeke nodded. “And you hand-picked each member of the Carraig unit, right? They’re the best out there. Besides you, of course. So let them do their jobs. Let’s focus on getting the situation under control here, and then we’ll launch a rescue mission as soon as we have enough information to go on.”

As much as she wanted to rush off and just  _ do something _ , he was right. Throwing herself into the search would leave the palace in an uproar. And that chaos would leave the capitol vulnerable—they’d be sitting ducks for a second attack. If she didn’t keep her own emotions in check, she could take the blame for any casualties that followed. Such was the burden of royalty. Niall wouldn’t want her to threaten Mor Ardain’s safety simply because she couldn’t keep a level head.

She had never been any good at waiting. Not that it mattered, really—the afternoon flashed by in an absolute blur. A member of the Carraig unit returned with the news that the trail of the emperor’s captor led into the Aramach’s fortress in Crá Gleann. Mòrag simply nodded at the news and dismissed the man without any additional orders. She suspected as much. If only Niall hadn’t ordered her not to take them down months ago. 

“I should have razed that entire valley when I had the chance,” Mòrag muttered.

“Don’t beat yourself up about that, Mòrag. You had now way of knowing this would happen. Regardless, let’s get General Haig on the ethercom so we can plan a rescue mission. He’s been working in that zone for months now. He’ll have good insight into how to fight our way through them. If we’re lucky, we’ll have Niall back in less than twenty-four hours,” Zeke responded hopefully.

_ Luck? With this fellow? That’s hardly likely. _

“...Let’s get him on the line.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice at the opposite end of the hall. 

Brighid. But not Brighid as they’d last seen her, with a grin on her face and an expression that seemed like she was already planning how to dress the royal baby. Now Brighid looked...drained. The ether-blocking handcuffs on her wrists were probably mostly to blame. Dirt and grime lined her dress. Blood did, too. A number of cuts and bruises lined her frame, unable to heal completely due to the lack of ether. Mòrag shuddered. The sight reminded her of the time they’d gone to rescue Rex and the others, only for Brighid to nearly get taken by the Urayans. Come to think of it, that conflict could have been avoided if not for the Aramach’s meddling. The Aramach had been behind that, too. 

Why were the Aramach always behind everything?

“Brighid! What happened to you? Are you all right?”

The Blade didn’t answer the question. “I-I’m too late, aren’t I? He took Niall, didn’t he?”

Mòrag nodded, wishing that Brighid would open her eyes for once. Her expression was damnably hard to read. And wait—had Brighid expected this? Did she know something about Niall’s captor? The suspicion knocked her like a punch in the gut.

“Pandy, get those cuffs off her.”

With a quick zap of ether from Pandoria, the cuffs fell away. The effect was instantaneous. Brighid’s hair dried immediately, and the cuts and bruises faded. But the moment her hands were free, Brighid brought them to her face, as if she was trying to hide tears and rub her temples all at once.

“Damn me. This is all my fault. Damn everything,” she whispered.

“...Brighid, what are you saying?”

“You didn’t find my letter.”

“What letter? You’re not making any sense. What’s going on? Who did that to you? Why would this be your fault?”

“Could we talk? Alone.”

“There’s no time for that. We have to act quickly. So please, explain what’s going on,” Mòrag pleaded.

Brighid looked back and forth from her Driver’s face to Zeke and Pandoria, clearly perturbed by the unwanted audience but fully aware that Mòrag wasn’t about to back down. Mòrag was just shy of commanding her to explain, really.

“...I-I went to Crá Gleann while you were gone. I infiltrated their fortress alone, but I got caught.”

“Alone? What would possess you to do such a stupid thing?”

Brighid flinched at her Driver’s criticism but continued. “I wanted to take out their leader so you wouldn’t have to face him. I was trying to protect you. I’ve always tried to protect you. And I’ve always failed. Mòrag, the leader of the Aramach...it’s him. It’s Pachnall.”

The name, once spoken, caused a mix of expressions. Pandoria’s face contorted in confusion. Zeke’s face widened in recognition, then morphed in concern when he looked to Mòrag. And Mòrag’s face took on a look Brighid had only ever witnessed once: the moment Niall threw himself in front of Bana's artificial Blade.

“Th-that’s not possible. You—you told me he was dead,” she stammered.

Brighid’s head drooped. “I said he was gone. But that day he escaped. He stole the Artigo, and over the years he used his influence to create the Aramach. He’s still alive.”

All afternoon long, the nausea had been building in Mòrag’s gut, growing like a snowball rolling down a mountainside. And when the reality of Brighid’s confession sunk in, the contents of her stomach all came rushing out. The bile burned in her throat like a swallowed flame.

_ He’s alive.  _

_ He’s alive, and he’s still out to get you. Told you that you still needed me to protect you. You still need me after all. _

Mòrag straightened and wiped the vomit from the corner of her mouth, not bothering to discard the soiled glove. She glared at the Blade.

“You lied to me. You lied.”

Brighid winced again. “I never actually told you he was dead. The Emperor and I wanted you to heal. You were hurting, Mòrag. We couldn’t bear to watch the nightmares eat you alive. So when he escaped, we let you believe he was executed. I did it for your own good. To protect you. Please understand that.”

“I nearly killed myself because of that man. And now you mean to tell me that he has my son?”

“Y-yes. I never thought he’d be able to pull it off.”

Mòrag’s voice fell. “You’ve known this entire time, haven’t you? You knew that Pachnall was the one in charge of the Aramach, but you never told me to cover for your lies. Brighid, how could you?”

“I just wanted you to heal, Mòrag,” Brighid argued weakly. “And you have. Just look at you. You’re about to be a mother. You’ve come so far.”

Zeke kept silent throughout the entire exchange, but in that moment, he watched something snap in Mòrag’s demeanor. He thought he’d seen her angry before during their own spats—most of them petty ones—but this...this was different. The nicknames “Flames” didn’t suit her anymore; her glare turned icy, and all the color vanished from her skin. Her hands clenched in their customary position behind her back. Her jaw clenched even tighter. Her voice, however, was eerily calm.

“You let me heal on the basis of a lie. You let me live in a false sense of complacency. And because of that betrayal, my son is now in the hands of my abuser.”

“I’m so sorry, Mòrag. I’m sorry. But I swear I did it to protect you.”

“Why should I believe anything you say? You’ve been lying to me for over a decade. Who’s to say this is the only lie?”

Brighid had no answer to that at first. “I know how to get into their fortress. We can get him back. Together.”

Mòrag shook her head stiffly. “We will get him back, but you will not be coming with us. I can do without your so-called help.”

“Mòrag—” Zeke interjected.

“Stay out of this,” she hissed. “Brighid, you are to return to your quarters. Pack your belongings. I want you out of Alba Cavanich by sundown.”

Brighid fell to her knees, mouth and eyes agape. Tears started flowing from her eyes faster than her internal radiation could evaporate them. “Y-you can’t mean that.”

“Get out of my sight.”

“Mòrag, please don’t do this. I-I can’t leave you,” Brighid whimpered. “You’re everything to me. Without you, my life is meaningless. Please don’t send me from your side! Please.”

Zeke spoke up. “Mòrag, this is ridiculous. I know you’re pissed, but don’t kick her out. That’s too drastic.”

“Is it?” she demanded. “At a time like this, I need to know that every single person inside this palace is someone I can trust. And she’s made it quite clear that she doesn’t deserve my trust.”

The fire Blade looked as though her Driver had just ordered her to die on the spot. And for a very tense moment, Zeke wondered if she would have the strength to move—either out of defiance or obedience to Mòrag’s harsh demand. And what to do? Tell Mòrag outright that she was making a mistake? She was barely holding it together as it was. And who could blame her? In the span of two hours she’d learned that her child had been kidnapped  _ and  _ that her abuser was still alive. So much stress would turn most people into a complete wreck. For now, she looked like she put a brave face on it, but he could see the terror and anger bubbling underneath the surface of her mannerisms. The last thing she needed right now was an argument about her Blade. And she had every right to be furious. But to banish her Blade—surely after a week or two, Mòrag would regret that, right?

Brighid delayed for an agonizing amount of time, her eyes pleading for Mòrag to reconsider. But the Driver continued to wordlessly glare back just as she would stare to intimidate an enemy. It was a withering look, really. The Blade finally did as she was told. But no one missed the sound of weeping as the door shut behind her.

Zeke sprung into action. 

“Pandy, go after Brighid. Make sure she doesn’t leave.”

“But Mòrag said—”

“I’ll take care of Mòrag. She’ll calm down. For now just make sure Brighid doesn’t leave the palace, okay?”

Pandoria’s light bulbs flickered. Then she nodded. “Fine. But once all this calms down, you owe me a serious explanation, okay?”

Until then, he’d honored Mòrag’s request to keep her history a secret, even from Pandoria. But with everything that his Blade just witnessed, there was no avoiding an explanation. Suddenly he felt a bit guilty. Maybe he should have told Pandoria; Drivers and Blades shouldn’t keep secrets from each other. 

“You betcha.” 

Zeke returned his attention to Mòrag—and not a moment too soon. She’d retreated to the chair, but it didn’t do her much good. Her breathing quickened by the second, and her pupils dilated. But one sight perturbed him more than anything: she’d rolled up one of her sleeves and was digging at the scars. Her fingernails left behind harsh red streaks after just a few seconds. Instinctively, he grabbed her wrists and pulled them apart. She tried to wrench free, but he held tight. Her pulse throbbed wildly underneath his fingers. 

_ She’s nearly panicking. I’ve got to calm her down. But shit, what am I even supposed to say? _

He silently cursed whatever higher power was calling the shots to Mòrag’s life. Whether that was fate, the Architect’s will, or something else didn’t matter—it was unfair. She’d already endured these horrors once. Whatever metaphysical entity was making her suffer through this all over again ought to be ripped from its pedestal and electrocuted for eternity. Mòrag deserved a break, not a breaking point.

A pang of selfishness also mixed itself into the anger and pity he felt for her. What if this made her sink back into her old habits? What if she started to shut him out again? 

No. He couldn’t focus on that now. 

“Mòrag, stop,” he said as she tried to dig at the scars again. “Don’t do that.”

“Let me go!”

He laced his fingers in hers and gripped tightly. “Mòrag, look at me. Don’t you dare go back there. Look at me.”

Her eyes finally met his. He willed himself not to flinch at the raw terror in them. For a long time, she didn’t say anything.

“Mòrag, talk to me. Please don’t shut me out.”

“Architect, the nightmare is starting all over again. Maybe it never even ended,” she murmured at last.

Zeke stifled a shudder of his own at the mere idea of her bad dreams. Her nightmares had been infrequent lately; she’d really only had one bad one since the war with Uraya. He hated that memory. He slept heavily, but her whimpers and thrashing had still managed to wake him. If that became the norm again...he couldn’t bear the thought.

“We’re going to get him back. I’ll help. This Pachnall bastard doesn’t stand a chance.”

“You don’t know that man like I do. H-he’s terrifying. He’s ruthless. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. Architect, will I never be rid of him?”

“Yes. Because we’re going to march into Crá Gleann and send him to hell for good this time.”

“It’s not enough. What if he hurts Niall?” Mòrag retreated back into her own thoughts again. Her expression worsened as a new thought occurred to her. “What if he hurts Niall the same way he hurt me? Niall’s so small and innocent. He couldn’t take it. Architect, he must be so scared.”

Damn it. There wasn’t a good answer to any of this. So much for helping her feel safe.

“Give Niall some credit. He’s no pansy. He’s a brave kid. You raised him to be, right? He’ll hold out long enough for us to rescue him. And look...um, I know it’s not exactly comforting, but I don’t think he’s going to hurt Niall. It seems like he’s trying to get to you.”

_ Gah, I’m not helping. Damn it all.  _

“He’s been haunting me all along. I-I thought he’d never be able to hurt me again.”

“And he’s not going to lay a finger on you, Mòrag. I swear it.”

“Because you’ll stop him?” Mòrag asked. He couldn’t tell if it was a disbelieving scoff or a childlike expression of faith in his protection.

“No.  _ We’ll  _ stop him. Together. Or if you want to take him down yourself, that’s fine, too. I’ll back you up. But either way, you’re going to go up there and show that bastard that he messed with the wrong person.”

“Just promise me Niall’s going to be okay. If anything happened to him, I’d—” her voice broke, and she buried her face in his shoulder. 

For the longest time, he’d respected Mòrag’s feelings for Niall, but the depth of her dedication to him had baffled him. So had the relentless self-sacrifice. He looked down, trying to think of the right thing to say. Then he caught a glimpse of her belly. It wasn’t exactly what most people would call a ‘baby bump’—the book said something about athletic people taking a long time to show—but it was enough that the seams on her uniform were starting to look a bit tight. And in that moment, he understood that protective instinct. If anyone tried to hurt this growing little piece of himself, he’d probably go on a rampage, plain and simple.

“Cross my crystal,” he replied.

_ Architect, help me keep that promise. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Did I sorta break the fourth wall in this chapter when Zeke is cursing the higher powers behind Morag's story? Yeah. 'Cause this plot point sucks.
> 
> Also, bonus points to you if you recognize the classic poem that I alluded to in this chapter. (It's honestly quite old, but sometimes I just have to act like the dorky lit nerd I am. That's all).
> 
> No promises on when I'll have the next chapter up. After last month's crazy writing spree, the call of Sithis is feeling abnormally strong. I'll try to resist enough to write. ;)


	26. Bonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter gave me serious heebie-jeebies. O_O

As requested, Zeke spent the bulk of the flight to Crá Gleann reading through the battle plan to rescue the Emperor. 

The plan itself was simple. Almost crude. But he was grateful there was one; he’d half expected Mòrag to rush off and cut down everything in her path in a reckless assault on the enemy’s head airship. Once the initial shock of the news had worn off, however, she seemed to gather her composure enough to fulfill her duties as the head of the military. He almost would have admired her ability to shut out her emotions and focus on the task at hand. But he could still sense her anxieties boiling underneath the surface. And it worried him. 

It was no surprise, then, that she formulated a somewhat haphazard plan. But her generals backed it. If there was one thing the Empire took seriously, it was rescuing their Emperor. Zeke found it ironic; the Imperial Senate might want to unseat the young ruler, but the military that Senate commanded would risk life and limb in a shoddy plan to save him. 

“Damn complicated military states,” he muttered to himself. 

“What’s that?” Mòrag plopped down into the seat beside him. 

He tried not to stare at the dark circles under her eyes. Instead, his eye settled on the chroma katana sheathed at her waist. So much for getting her to talk things over with Brighid. Pandoria had succeeded in calming the fire Blade down (and keeping her at the palace), and he’d managed to convince Mòrag to back off the banishment order, but that was the only progress. The Driver and Blade hadn’t said a single word to each other since. 

“I-it’s nothing. How long ‘til we land?”

“Half an hour or so, according to the pilot.”

“Then in three or four hours you’ll have Niall back in your arms.”

She simply nodded and stared at a divot in the metal flooring below them, apparently unconvinced.

“Did you get any sleep at all on the way over here?”

A simple head shake in response.

“Did you even try to?”

“How can I at a time like this? And it’s not like you’ve slept, either.”

“Yeah, but I’m not growing a baby inside me,” he pointed out. 

“But you’re babying  _ me.  _ Stop being overbearing. I’m fine.”

“I’m not—”

He stopped himself. She wasn’t fine; anyone could see that. And who would be, given the circumstances? Couldn’t she see that it was okay to show a little emotion right now? No one would think any worse of her for it. Part of him wanted to drag her to the captain’s quarters and hold her there until she fell asleep. Even an hour would help. And didn’t he have the right to be a little concerned about her wellbeing right now? Granted, he expected they’d have this argument sooner or later, but they shouldn’t have it now. Not when they were sleep-deprived and both on the edge of their tempers. And not when there was something more pressing to argue over.

“...You are going to let Brighid come on the strike force to get Niall back, aren’t you?”

“You’d probably ask her to come along yourself anyway. So there’s no use trying to stop it. As long as she doesn’t get in my way.”

That much was true; he was the only reason Brighid had even been allowed to come on the mission to begin with:

_ “What is  _ **_she_ ** _ doing here?”  _ Mòrag had asked when she saw the fire Blade boarding the airship bound for the Aramach’s valley.  _ “I thought I made it clear that I don’t want her help.” _

_ “I asked her to come along. Or are you going to tell me which Blades I can and can’t bring?”  _ he’d retorted.

_ “But she’s not your Blade.” _

_ “Well you certainly aren’t acting like she’s  _ **_yours,_ ** _ now are you? I want Brighid’s help on this mission. If I go, she goes.” _

That had shut her up. He’d wanted to scold her for acting so harshly towards her Blade; she was practically throwing a temper tantrum. But he kept his mouth shut and hoped that Niall’s rescue would soothe her temper. Yes, that had to be it. This was just a bad combination of hormonal mood swings and her protective instincts. She’d go back to her old self once they recovered Niall. Or she’d at least be willing to hear Brighid out, surely.

The second the airship moved into a landing pattern, Mòrag sprung into action. She spent the better part of the morning cursing the slowness of military bureaucracy. Even though her subordinates moved as quickly as they could, the preparations ate up far too much time. Every moment they wasted preparing meant another moment that Niall might be—

No. She wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t. Those thoughts paralyzed her, so she had to bury them. For his sake, she had to keep moving. After touching base with General Haig in the command center, they could set the whole plan into motion. So she made a beeline for the largest tent in the camp. 

_ I’m coming, Niall. Please be all right.  _

“Mòrag!”

A blur of movement from her peripheral vision interrupted her walk. She mentally scolded herself for not spotting the person rushing at her until he was right on top of her; how could she expect to run a rescue mission with such tunnel vision? She needed to stay alert to her surroundings—especially people. Speaking of which, the person who’d charged at her had a familiar voice. Only when he wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug did she realize who it was. There was only one person besides Zeke who ever dared to embrace her so boldly. 

“Rex! What are you doing here?”

Her body had felt icy all day. Maybe it was Brighid’s absence making her cold, or the stress of it all had numbed her to all else. But when Rex pounced on her with that hug, she felt a little surge of warmth. Or maybe it was hope. If he was here, then—

“I would think it was obvious, Flamebrain.” Nia’s voice. “We’re here to help you get the Emperor back.”

“But how did you even know to come? I thought you all went home.”

Zeke spoke up. “I called them and asked them to meet us at Crá Gleann. You ordered all of the Empire’s strongest water Blades to come here, right? I figured Nia and Dromarch are the strongest ones we know. And I called everyone else up, too, while I was at it.”

Mythra finally joined the little group with Tora and Poppi trailing behind her. She hadn’t bothered to chase after her Driver, who must have broken into a run the moment he spotted them. But apparently, she overhead enough of the conversation to pipe in as soon as she was with them.

“You didn’t honestly think we’d leave you to handle this yourself, did you?” the Aegis asked. “Rex has been antsy ever since we heard. It was all Pyra and I could do to get him to pack a bag before hopping on Azurda’s back and flying all the way over here.”

Rex scratched his ear sheepishly. “Of  _ course _ we rushed over here to help. Mòrag’s part of our family, right? Zeke, too. So when we found out her brother was in trouble, we just had to come over and help. Plus, we owe the Emperor big-time.”

“Part of your family, eh chum?”

“Our totally  _ dysfunctional  _ family,” Mythra sighed loudly. “Speaking of which, I know it’s not exactly the time or place for it, but congrats, you two.”

“Thanks, Mythra,” Zeke answered half-heartedly. 

Mòrag didn’t answer. The Aegis was right; even though this was the first time they’d seen their friends since announcing the pregnancy, it certainly wasn’t the right time for celebrating. And she was too focused on the fact that in spite of it all, somehow their friends still didn’t know the truth about Niall. How long that would last, however, was anyone’s guess. After all, they were about to go charging into Pachnall’s lair. While she could keep Zeke and Pandoria sworn to secrecy, she couldn’t control what the Aramach leader said while they rescued the Emperor. 

For a moment, there was the temptation to put her friends on other teams and keep the Carraig guard with her for the strike team to rescue Niall. She could silence her own soldiers with a gag order. Her friends? Not so much. But no—she couldn’t ask for a better strike force than her companions. Between her and Zeke’s abilities, Rex and the Aegis’s powerful attacks, Nia and Dromarch’s healing, and Tora and Poppi’s ability to fight even in ether-deficient situations, Pachnall wouldn’t stand a chance. It would be sheer foolishness not to bring them on the strike team to rescue Niall. They were the best fighters available to her now. Not to mention Rex would hate being excluded from the team in the thick of the danger. 

“...Thank you for coming. All of you. I-I’ll let Zeke brief you on the plan. I have a few final arrangements to make with command,” Mòrag said at last, then shuffled off to the tent she’d mentioned.

Zeke stayed with the others, reading her unvoiced request to have them join the strike team. It had been obvious in her expression. And naturally, that was the whole reason he’d asked Rex and everyone else to come. If she had to face Pachnall again, he wanted her to know she didn’t have to do it alone this time. Now, her family—dysfunctional and not blood-related though it was—would back her up. 

“Not to be rude, but Mòrag looks awful,” Mythra said as soon as the Inquisitor was out of earshot.

“Mythra! That  _ was _ super rude!” Rex scolded. “But Zeke, is she gonna be okay?”

“You know how she is. She’s all composed until something happens to Niall. A threat to him is the only thing that gets her rattled,” Zeke explained, trying to dodge the question.

“Well sure, we all saw her break down when it looked like he died,” Nia added. “But this...this is worse.”

“Friend Mòrag in stabby mood, Tora thinks.”

“Not like normal Mòrag at all,” Poppi added.

“Zeke, what’s going on?” Rex asked again.

“...Look guys, it’s really complicated. The bastard who took Niall, well, it’s someone Mòrag knows. And he’s a really dangerous guy. So she’s really worried. And it certainly doesn’t help that she’s going on like forty hours without sleep, too.”

“Is it really safe for her to be here? You know, with the baby and all. It’s not healthy for anyone to go that long without sleep, much less a pregnant woman.”

“I dunno how safe it is, honestly,” Zeke admitted. Somehow, knowing the others worried too made him feel a little better—maybe he wasn’t being overprotective after all. “But it would be a lot less safe for me to try to convince her to stay behind. Because she would kill  _ me _ for suggesting it.”

Rex nodded. “Well, I guess that’s all the more reason for us to help and make sure we get the Emperor back safe and sound. And fast.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Oh, and um, you’ll probably notice pretty quickly, but Brighid and Mòrag are...they’re a bit upset with each other at the moment. So if they don’t act like themselves over the next couple days, please don’t bring it up. I’m sure they’ll work through it once this stuff clears up, but until then, it’s—”

“Complicated, right?” Nia interrupted.

“Yeah. Just don’t make things worse by making a big deal about it, okay? Mòrag has enough on her mind as it is.”

Rex nodded. “Got it. So, what’s the plan? If it means helping Mòrag feel better, I’m ready to bust some heads.”

_ You and me both, chum.  _

Zeke relayed the sparse details of the plan to his comrades, not even bothering to fake his usual enthusiasm. When the operation began, every available water Blade would inundate the valley with as much moisture as possible. That was the first gamble. In theory, by dousing the entire area, the flammable materials within the region would be too soaked to combust. For a few hours, at least. Hopefully. There was an equal chance that it might still ignite.

Next, the primary force of the army’s infantry would advance on the Aramach’s defensive line, drawing them into combat. Meanwhile, a small strike force would sneak around the conflict and board the stolen flagship, the Artigo. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Pachnall would have the young ruler imprisoned there. Not only was it the best defensive position in the entire valley, but Mòrag also believed it held a special significance to the traitor.

_ “He always had a flair for the dramatic. Holding the current Emperor captive, the child of the rightful Empress, on the previous Emperor’s stolen ship...he’ll get some sick enjoyment from it. He’ll be on the Artigo,”  _ Mòrag had explained. 

If Pachnall had the Emperor anywhere else, they’d find themselves in serious trouble. Best not to dwell on that possibility; they lacked any contingency plans. It was this, or nothing. That said, dispatching Pachnall would cut the head off the Aramach snake. They could neutralize the criminal empire and rescue the Emperor in one fell swoop if all went well.

“Once we get onto the airship, we’ll be flying blind. We think they’ll be in the ship’s command center, but anything could happen. If you’re not up for that, we can have you guys lead a squad out in the main force or something,” Zeke finished.

“Shellhead, we’re good at flying blind. Half of our plans never even work out anyway. We show up, start executing our plan, and then all hell breaks loose. But we always come out okay in the end. This won’t be any different.”

Mythra switched over to Pyra. “Mòrag needs our help. We won’t let her down. We’re in. Just give the word.”

A warhorn sounded, shrill against the stillness of the evening air. “That’ll be the cue for the water Blades,” Zeke commented. “Let’s go find Mòrag.”

Nia nodded. “Dromarch and I will go help flood things over, and then we’ll catch up with you when the main force moves in. Sound good?”

“Perfect. Let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

“It’s about time you woke up,” a voice murmured. “Although I suppose with your job you don’t get nearly enough rest.”

Niall wanted to slip back into sleep; its embrace still hung heavy around him. But the unfamiliarity of that voice pushed some of the cobwebs from his mind. It wasn’t Aegaeon. Not one of his personal guards or aides, either. Once his eyes opened, he realized that he didn’t recognize the ceiling above him. Something about it seemed familiar, but it wasn’t quite right. It looked Ardainian, but an older national style. 

His gaze moved to the speaker. That sight woke him up. And how could it not? The face had burned itself in his memory. The sharp features, the brilliant blue eyes...yes, that was it—what he’d noticed even during the chaos as this man overpowered Aegaeon and captured him. Those eyes gleamed with an intensity he’d only ever seen in one other person. And something about them looked...familiar. The man stared at him intently.

Niall took advantage of that silence to get a better look at his surroundings. With the initial haze of sleep gone—no it wasn’t sleep, it was a drug-induced stupor, he realized—he recognized the basic layout of his surroundings. These weren’t the walls of a building, as he originally suspected. The curves of the walls and ceiling and the exposed, militant lighting gave it away as an airship. An old Ardainian one, by the look of it. And a grand one in its prime.

“...This was the Artigo. My father’s ship,” Niall said at last. The words stuck in his throat. He needed water, but he dared not ask for it. Somehow, his captor drugged him; maybe he’d used water. 

The man laughed, a punctuated sound that lacked mirth. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? Not that I’m surprised, given your heritage.” 

Niall stretched as much as his restraints would allow. From the elbows down, he could move his arms and hands; someone had tied him by the chest to a chair in the center of the room. His ankles were bound, too. But other than that, he was free to move. It was only marginally uncomfortable. That seemed odd. Shouldn’t a captor be trying to keep him as subdued as possible? 

“You’re wondering why I haven’t bound you head to toe,” the man observed.

“I could hop around if I tried hard enough.”

His captor gave that strange laugh again. “You’re probably stubborn enough to attempt it, but you’re in the bridge, kid. You’d never make it all the way off this airship. Not without help.”

“...Mor Ardain does not negotiate with criminals. So whatever ransom you’re hoping to gain, I advise you to forget about it. You have nothing to gain by holding me prisoner. You can’t possibly withstand the might of the Imperial army.”

“Ha! You’re so like her that it almost hurts.”

“Like who?”

“Your mother,” the man replied simply.

“You knew my mother? Who are you, anyway?” 

Niall hoped the curiosity wasn’t too obvious in his voice. Queen Annabelle had died when he was just eight years old, so he didn’t have many clear memories of her. And the Emperor never talked about her much. Mòrag didn’t, either. So for this man, a leader of a crime syndicate that had managed to kidnap him, to know something about her...it was odd.

“My name’s Pachnall, and I  _ know  _ your mother. Although it’s been a while since I’ve seen her. Impressive lady. Exquisite, really.”

“Then perhaps you’ll be saddened to know that she’s dead.”

Pachnall raised an eyebrow. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I helped carry her coffin to our family crypt.”

“...She really never told you, did she? I knew that the Empire believed you were Annabelle’s child, but I figured she would have told you, at least. She always placed such a priority on honesty, after all.”

“I  _ am  _ Annabelle’s child,” Niall insisted.

“Yes, by adoption. But not by birth.”

“Th-that’s—”

“The truth,” Pachnall retorted. “Look, kid. I know you’re smart, so try to piece things together. What would I be trying to gain by capturing you like this? We’ve already established that it’s not for a ransom. And I’m not so stupid as to think that the Ardainian military won’t come try to rescue you.”

“...You want them to come here. You’re using me as bait for some sort of trap.”

“A trap for a very specific person, actually. Someone who’s had a very special impact on both of our lives. And someone who I know won’t be able to resist coming to save you.”

“Mòrag.”

Pachnall sighed deeply at the name, eyes closed and a nearly blissful expression on his face. No—it wasn’t quite blissful, Niall realized. There was something else to it that he couldn’t quite place. Something twisted. Maybe this man was one of those unsavory admirers his sister had? It was no secret that she had a few over the years; most of them ended up with restraining orders, imprisoned, or otherwise intimidated away by the Empire’s strongest Driver and her Blade. 

“Ah, how I’ve missed hearing her name,” Pachnall continued. “Tell me, does she still do that cute little stretch when she thinks no one is watching? Where she stretches out her arms and cracks her knuckles? It made her back arch so perfectly. I always loved it when she did that.”

The earnestness of Pachnall’s tone made Niall’s stomach churn. If not for his bonds, he would have tried to strike the man. And it took him a moment to realize why that statement sickened him so much; Mòrag  _ did  _ do that exact gesture. It happened rarely, in those few moments she dropped the formality she wore so well. But for someone like this criminal underlord to know her mannerisms so intimately... 

Only then did Niall recognize the papers on the wall for what they were. At first he assumed they were plans or reports from Pachnall’s subordinates. But no—they were something much worse. Something that confirmed his hypothesis that Pachnall was not a savory individual. The realization made him want to vomit.

“Just who are you?” He almost dreaded the answer.

“I’m the first man Mòrag ever loved. We were building a life together, a family. Some pompous fools forced us apart. I tried to move on, to be with other girls...but no one ever compared to her. She captivated me. So I’m winning her back. I even built this new empire for her. It’s not the Ardanach’s empire of course, but with her help, the Aramach empire can be just as mighty. She can be our Empress.”

“Y-you’re out of your mind,” Niall insisted. “My sister never had any lovers. I’d have noticed. And she’d never fall for someone like you.”

“No lovers? Then why did she bear my firstborn? If she didn’t love me, why did she keep my child?”

“My sister would never do something so vulgar. And she doesn’t have any children yet.”

“But she does. And I’m looking right at him.”

Niall laughed, a reaction which surprised him. Why laugh now? Maybe it was just the stress of being held captive that made his normal guarded reactions melt away. And the connotations of what this man—this  _ lunatic _ —said were preposterous. Weren’t they? He couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous it sounded. Mòrag was the paragon of propriety, a proper Ardainian princess. She’d never. Not with him, surely. 

But there was this tiny sliver of doubt in the back of his mind. Pachnall’s eyes  _ did  _ look so familiar.

“No. I’m Emperor Nealon’s son. Mòrag’s my sister.” 

Pachnall’s face twisted into an odd pitiful look. “On paper, yes. You’re Nealon’s son by adoption. That damn Emperor stole my woman and my son from me. I was glad when he finally died...You poor thing, living in complete ignorance this whole time. I’m sorry she never told you. Everyone has the right to know where they come from. Unlike her, I won’t keep the truth from you. I’m your father, Niall. Mòrag is your mother.”

“That’s—”

His voice faltered. That sliver of doubt grew. Pachnall wasn’t lying—at least, none of the tells for lying were present. And he should know; he’d been trained to spot liars through their mannerisms. It was a necessity for surviving court life, especially at his age. But Pachnall’s eyes weren’t dilated. He didn’t avoid eye contact or fidget. His vocal intonation remained unchanged. Either he was a very good liar, or he genuinely believed what he said. Or maybe it was true. 

An old memory surfaced, spurring that doubt a bit further:

_ “In truth, it should have been you sitting in this chair right now.” _

_ “The Imperial line has always passed from father to son. On the day Your Majesty was born, that’s exactly what happened. I knew that day would come. It came as no surprise.” _

No surprise, indeed. If what Pachnall said was true, then it certainly wasn’t a surprise to Mòrag. Far from it. And he always had nagging doubts that the throne should have gone to someone else. Maybe his gut feeling was right all along. But would Mòrag really lie to his face that way? That couldn’t be true. Mòrag was the one thing in his life that had always stayed the same. His pillar, his constancy. The one person he trusted and relied on more than anything. Pachnall had to be lying, not Mòrag.

But the question kept surfacing. What if it were true? 

“...I can see why you don’t want to believe me. So just relax. Your mother will be here soon enough. And once we’ve gotten rid of the extra fools with her, we’ll sit down and talk things through like a proper family. She’ll explain.”

“You’re not my family. You’re a lying psychopath.”

“Believe what you want, kid. It doesn’t change reality.”

Niall cleared his throat to make another rebuttal, but at that moment, an Aramach guard burst into the room and saluted. 

“Boss! Report from the field!”

“Spit it out, worm,” Pachnall ordered.

“They’ve already broken through the vanguard vessels. The Special Inquisitor and her team are advancing at a breakneck pace. Our best can’t even hold them off. They’ll be on board this ship any minute now.”

“Hear that, Niall? Your mother’s almost here.”

“Mòrag’s going to destroy you. She’s unstoppable. You have no idea what she’ll do to you for threatening me.”

“I taught her everything she knows, boy. I’d like to see her try,” Pachnall retorted smugly. “Oi, Rico. Tell the others to get into position. Then drug him again.” 

“You sure, Boss? I figured you’d want to make him squirm in front of her. Or something.”

“Leaving him conscious is far too risky. After all, he’s  _ her  _ son. And mine. Runt might not look like much, but he’s made of strong stuff. If anyone could find a way to break free, it’s him. Can’t risk him ruining our little family reunion.”

A sharp pain stuck in his arm, and the world went hazy all over again.

* * *

“This is the ship, right?” Rex asked, shaking the water from his hair for the tenth time that hour.

Mòrag nodded, blinking as water ran off the bridge of her nose towards her eyes. The truth was they were all soaked; the Imperial water Blades had unleashed wall after wall of moisture into the valley. But that felt like hours ago now. Now rain fell instead, which ensured that the valley remained a sopping wet mess of muck that smelled like sulphur and rancid meat. Soaking the area did ensure that fire-based attacks didn’t cause deadly explosions; however, it slowed their progress immensely. 

But the bulk of the moisture coating Mòrag and her companions was self-inflicted—collateral splash from the tsunamic water attacks she unleashed on each opponent she encountered. Only Aegaeon dared to tell her to back off a touch (and he got away with it simply because he struggled to keep up with the ether energy her arts demanded; he needed her to show a bit more restraint). Her companions hadn’t done much fighting. They merely mopped up the stragglers she left in her wake.

The Artigo’s door hung open, as if inviting them in. But Mòrag hesitated a moment on the threshold. 

Zeke squeezed her free hand gently. “I’m right with you. Shield for your back, remember?”

So he still remembered that line from their vows. How long ago that seemed now. But it was the reassurance she needed.

“Let’s go. Everyone be on your guard,” Mòrag warned, willing her voice not to waver. “There’s no telling what he might be plotting.”

“Right. Let’s do this!”

And so they plunged into the Artigo’s passageways with Mòrag and Aegaeon in front and Brighid taking up the rear. At first, everything seemed to go smoothly; they encountered nothing more than a few sentries, and finding the route to the ship’s bridge proved simple.

Then the floor lurched beneath them. Thick rumblings echoed from underfoot. The halls hummed with the flow of energy coursing through the entire ship. Everyone stopped short, trying to regain a steady footing.

“Wh-what the hell is that?”

“The Artigo’s airborne,” Mòrag murmured. “He’s trying to fly us out of the valley. Damn it.”

“But what if the army tries to shoot us down?” Rex asked, bewildered. “We’re stuck!”

“They won’t,” Brighid finally spoke up. “Not when they know that both the Emperor and the Special Inquisitor are onboard. Pachnall must know that.”

“It’s still a bloody problem,” Zeke pointed out. “If we take too long, we’ll be cut off from the Ardainian supply line. Or worse, we might have no idea where we are. Shit. He’s gonna isolate us.”

“Let’s finish this quickly, then.”

They continued on in earnest. Mòrag almost wished this whole scenario would act like a normal rescue, with enemy soldiers jumping out from every possible nook and cranny to halt their progress. Unexpected combat she could deal with. But none happened—their only combat occurred with the occasional sentry. Which meant that Pachnall had given his men strict orders to hold back. He  _ wanted  _ them to make it to the bridge without incident; doubtless he had his own twisted welcome awaiting them there. And if they all survived that, the Aramach would probably all burst from hiding to avenge their leader and cut off their escape. With the Artigo airborne, they couldn’t call for reinforcements. Whatever Pachnall had planned, they couldn’t avoid it. 

But whatever lay in store for them, Niall needed them to overcome it. That thought alone overcame her growing sense of dread as they pushed forward. 

After what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the bridge of the airship and poured inside. 

A strange noise hitched in Mòrag’s throat, as if she had sighed in relief and gasped in fear simultaneously. Relief that her hunch was right; Ciaran and Pachnall were both here at the opposite end of the room. But fear because they stood on either side of a chair—a chair that held an unconscious, bound Niall. From her distance, Mòrag couldn’t get a good look at him. He didn’t appear seriously injured, but some wounds wouldn’t show externally. Especially not the psychological ones. 

She spent so much time processing the view of Niall and his captors that she took much longer to notice what had captured the rapt attention of her companions. They all stared at it, dumbstruck.

Papers covered the entirety of one wall, creating a haphazard collage of photos and newspaper clippings. Some looked at least a decade old with faded paper and curled edges; others seemed brand-new, with bold lettering and crisp paper and brightly-colored images. But one didn’t have to look long to see that each news story and photo represented the same subject. 

Herself.

One of the oldest headlines featured her coming-of-age ceremony. Beside it hung a facsimile of a portrait of the royal family, painted after Niall’s fifth birthday. Another blurb told the story of her enlistment in the army, then her accomplishments in the Gormotti conflict, her promotion to Special Inquisitor, the entire journey with Rex and the Aegis...if any single aspect of her life had ever been published in one of Mor Ardain’s tabloids or newspapers, it was starting back at her from this comprehensive display. More recent additions to the mix included photos from her birthday gala, and of course, pictures from the wedding ceremony. There were dozens of those, but the most prominent one showed the precise moment Niall hugged her after escorting her down the aisle. The newest magazine clipping showed a so-called “leak” of the royal pregnancy—that wasn’t even common knowledge yet. Yes, most of the palace staff knew, as did their closest friends and family. But not the general public.

Pachnall knew almost everything about her life—up to the latest detail. That explained the horrified, disgusted look on everyone’s faces. Hers probably looked similar. For a long moment, no one spoke, processing the scope of the man’s sheer fixation.

And all the while, the man himself smiled proudly.

“I hope you’re as proud of your own accomplishments as I am, Mòrag,” he said at last. “Although I must admit that the photos really don’t do you justice. Absolutely exquisite, even all these years later.”

If not for the fact that he stood too close to Niall to get in a clear shot, Mòrag would have run him through with a spear of water on the spot. 

“I’m not here to talk,” she retorted. She’d half expected the wall of photos and newspaper articles to rattle her and throw her into a spiral of fear, but it had the opposite effect: it angered her. The man who clearly obsessed over her had her son held captive. And that could not stand. “Give him back. Now. If you do, I’ll make your death quick. Refuse, and the way I kill you will make hell seem tame.”

“Now, now, princess. You might not be in much of a mood to talk, but I am. Don’t be rude. We both know that things are much easier for you when you do as I ask. Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be.”

She drew her sword. “I’m not afraid to fight back this time. I’m not the scared little girl I used to be. Now give him back.”

“Not scared?” Pachnall laughed, stepping close enough to her that she could smell him. She willed herself to take shallow breaths; his all-too familiar scent made the nausea bubble up all over again. “Then what’s with the shaking? You can’t even hold your sword still.”

Mòrag couldn’t come up with an adequate retort to that; he was right. Better to say nothing at all than to pretend otherwise. 

“I know you’re eager to fight, my dear. And you’ll get your chance for another sword lesson with me. But first, there are other lessons for you to recite.”

“I’m not your student. And I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Ciaran. Remind Mòrag what happens when she disobeys instructions.”

The Blade drew a dagger from his belt and scratched it across Niall’s right cheek, leaving behind a little trail of blood. Instinctively, Mòrag lurched forward.

“The closer you get, the deeper Ciaran’s dagger goes,” Pachnall warned. “The same goes for your companions.”

She stopped short. If only she could get Ciaran out of the way, she could put herself between Pachnall and Niall. But she’d never been completely accurate with Aegaeon’s attacks; she didn’t trust herself not to hurt the unconscious Emperor in the process. With a whipsword, she might manage it, but…

“Remember, Mòrag. When you don’t do as you’re told, someone gets hurt. Don’t make me mar our son’s pretty little face because you can’t follow simple instructions. So stay put and answer my questions. Once you do, we’ll spar for old times’ sake...Now, why didn’t you tell our son the truth? Why doesn’t Niall know who he really is? Why did you lie to him?”

“I didn’t lie to him,” she replied. She didn’t need to test Ciaran by not answering again. He’d cut again and again whenever she refused to answer. Cornered. This always happened when he was around. “I simply didn’t tell him. Knowing the truth would have caused him pain. All I ever wanted was for him to be happy. So I let him believe he was the Emperor’s son. To protect him.”

Mòrag’s gut twisted. Brighid used the same reasoning to keep the truth from her, she realized. But this was different, wasn’t it? 

“So you let him live a lie his entire life.”

...No, it wasn’t so different after all. 

“If you hadn’t kidnapped him, he would never have needed to know,” she admitted. “And...and I didn’t want to tell him because I didn’t want to go through all the bad memories of what you did to me.”

“Then you’re just the scared little girl you’ve always been.”

Mòrag felt the ether ripple around her—a tiny, gentle touch of affinity. It thrummed against her chest, far too subtle to be seen by the common observer, but a warmth she recognized. And more importantly, she understood the signal behind it. Brighid had a plan. A twinge of hope seeped through her veins.

In her peripheral vision, Mòrag saw one whipsword flash, then the next: the first to knock the dagger out of Ciaran’s hand, the second to knock the dropped weapon out of reach. In the same moment, Zeke dashed forward. Before Ciaran or Pachnall could react, the Thunderbolt threw himself between the unconscious prisoner and the enemy. Electricity crackled along the edges of his sword. 

“Give him hell, Flames.” 

She nodded and returned her attention to Pachnall. With the immediate threat to Niall dispatched, the twitching in her sword hand stopped.

“The girl you knew believed it was a weakness to ask for help. But that scared little girl is dead. I’m not alone anymore. I have all the help and support I could ever wish for.”

She took the first relaxed breath she’d taken in hours and eased into a fighting stance. Aegaeon stood at attention behind her.

Pachnall gave a proud smile in response. He pulled his rapier from its sheath. “Very well, princess. Show me how much you’ve grown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...It's occurring to me now that I may have watched too much Criminal Minds in my lifetime--maybe that explains the dark ideas that keep popping into my head when I write this stuff? I dunno. (But after this I really should write something super happy-go-lucky! lol).
> 
> But how does killing off Pachnall sound? I think it could be a good Christmas present to myself...I'm not entirely sure I can finish the next chapter that quickly, but we'll see. Either way, that psycho needs to go.


	27. A Traitor's Gambit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Here’s a climactic chapter to celebrate! (Okay, so technically it’s not Christmas anymore in most of the world, but it still is where I live--barely--so it still counts).

“We should help her!” Rex shouted.

“Chum, hang back. If she gets in a tough spot, we’ll help,” Zeke explained, “But for now, let her handle it. This is Mòrag’s fight.”

“Right,” Pyra agreed. “We’ll make sure none of Pachnall’s men interfere, then. You get the Emperor untied, all right?”

Even if they had wanted to engage Pachnall in a five-on-one battle, they would not have had the opportunity. As soon as Mòrag’s katana clashed with Pachnall’s rapier, the halls echoed with the sound of enemies charging up the stairs. Their aim was clear; they intended to surround the Inquisitor and her companions inside the bridge, cutting off any sort of escape. Rex and Tora took defensive positions inside the doors. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed with the onslaught. But they held firm, unwilling to yield a single inch. Meanwhile, Nia and Dromarch positioned themselves so their healing waves could reach both Mòrag and Aegaeon and the salvager-Nopon pair. Zeke set to work on Niall’s bonds. 

The activity surrounding the duel produced its own sort of chaos, but it was nothing compared to the sheer intensity of the duel itself. Pachnall and Ciaran held nothing back, and Mòrag and Aegaeon responded in kind (keeping Nia busy defending everyone else from collateral damage). In seconds, the ship’s entire bridge was flooded. But the unsteady footing did not faze the two Drivers. They pressed on, relentless.

For several sickening minutes, Mòrag wondered if this conflict would drag on for years, just as her nightmares had. Maybe they were fated to fight into eternity. After all, their skill levels matched almost perfectly. In a normal fight, that realization would have comforted her. Pachnall did not have age on his side; her stamina ought to outlast his. But the fight dragged on, and he met each of her sword strokes with a block and counterattack of his own. The force behind each strike never wavered. She would gain two strokes, two steps against him. Then he would gain them right back. 

Worse, Pachnall was not an opponent she could bait into stupid decisions. Like herself, his fighting style was patient, technical. He couldn’t rely on brute strength—not with a thin, agile weapon like his rapier. He would bide his time, waiting for the perfect opening in her defenses. 

And he found it. 

It was a stupid mistake, really. Pachnall’s rapier had caught in one of the spikes of her katana. She twisted her weapon, hoping to wrench the blade from his grip. Instead, the tip of the rapier spun quickly, nicking her in the crease of her elbow. She bit back a curse. The first to bleed in a duel usually came out worse. Blood oozed down her arm and soaked her gloves. Much longer and it would threaten the strength of her grip. Her heart drummed faster. Her throat tightened.

“Come now, Mòrag,” Pachnall taunted. “You’ll never beat me with that silly katana. Bring out your original Blade!”

Fighting alongside Brighid usually increased her accuracy and agility. But would it have the same effect when mere hours ago she’d been fighting  _ with  _ her Blade? 

_ Can you really trust her? She  _ **_lied_ ** _ to you. Niall’s life depends on this. What if she screws this up? _

Mòrag gripped the katana tighter, second-guessing herself. Instinct told her that, loathe as she was to admit it, Pachnall was right. Adept as she was with a katana, the fluidity of Aegaeon’s water-based attacks never quite suited her fighting style. And now, it directly contradicted the sheer fury that raged through her entire being. Her emotions did not synchronize with Aegaeon’s. Not against this opponent. She needed a Blade whose anger towards this man matched her own, whose desire to protect Niall was just as unquenched. She needed fire. 

_ “Give him hell, Flames.” _

Weapons flew through the air with wordless, practiced ease. Aegaeon jumped back and Brighid took his place. In the same moment, Mòrag caught the whipswords. The change was instantaneous. Her earlier anxiety about first blood cleared. Her muscles responded immediately, switching styles fluidly, as if the nuanced, technical adaptations between katana and whipsword were as easy as blinking. Brighid’s ether surged through her body; they burned in perfect harmony. Each strike grew stronger than the last. Pachnall fell back one step, then two. Blue flame ate away at darkness like dead grass. Whereas before the two opponents seemed evenly matched, now it seemed the roles of master and student had irrevocably reversed. 

The din of the battle around them died down as Tora finished off the final Aramach attacker, but neither Driver paid it any attention. Mòrag was winning. And they both knew it. 

Fifteen years ago, she struggled to read the man’s movements. His eyes always managed to distract her from the sly twists and feints he made. But today, his sword tactics were laid bare before her. Not a fraction of a ped’s motion escaped her notice. And more importantly, his tactics matched those he used a decade ago. She recognized every single maneuver. So when he spun on the spot—a twist on the left leg that could buy him enough momentum to slip under her pauldron—she saw the precise window of opportunity.

Could it really be so simple?

In the split-second when his back was turned to her, she sliced. The whipsword found purchase in the leather of his boot. 

Just a bit deeper. 

A tiny flicker of flame burnt away the last fibers of leather. The slick sound of metal slicing flesh followed, punctuated by a howl of pain as his achilles tendon gave way. Pachnall’s entire body crumpled. He dropped his sword. As he went down, she caught his stomach with the opposite sword. Shocked as she was that her first strike had worked, she missed any major organs, but blood trickled from his side as he landed face-up.

Her sword was at his throat in an instant. She’d won.

She paused. How many times had she imagined this moment in the hours since learning the man was still alive? This was an act of justice; her blade on his neck simply finished the order to execute him. She wanted to see his blood in pools on the floor; maybe it could wash away the nightmares for good. For all he’d done, he deserved to die. He’d lived on borrowed time long enough. Hadn’t he?

The face that haunted her nightmares for so many years—she could finally scour it from the earth. And in each and every bad dream, the face beneath her sword tip always contorted with hateful lust. But now, the face twisted in an expression she knew all too well. The same expression enemy soldiers wore on the battlefield before she killed them. A look that only humans made, and then only when they came to grips with the imminence of their own mortality.

Fear.

When it came down to the end, Pachnall was just a human after all—a monstrous one, but still a human. 

“Mòrag, finish him off! What are you waiting for?”

She jerked her mind back to the situation at hand; contemplating morality and mortality was a task for the aftermath, not the battle itself. But she moved too late. In the tiny window between when she raised her sword and brought it back down, Pachnall kicked. His boot made contact with her right side, toppling her.

_ Shit. Not my ribs again. _

She cursed herself for hesitating and rolled over to face him. She saw the maneuver coming—they practiced it hundreds of times in the beginning stages of her training. She knew the counter maneuver to evade, too. Executing it would be easy against an opponent with an injured leg. But it only ever worked from a standing position. And with the pain stabbing through her side, getting on her feet again was—

A flurry of blue. 

Brighid threw herself between them, throwing the other Driver off balance. His arms clapped around the Blade’s body instead. Then everything was a blaze of heat and hatred as the two wrestled for dominance over the other—Brighid trying to sear any patch of skin she could reach and Pachnall clutching for the dagger at his belt. The air reeked of scorched flesh. Any water that remained on the man’s skin and the floor burst into steam. The sweat and blood did, too. Between that cloud and the sheer intensity of the heatwaves, Mòrag couldn’t tell which competitor had the upper hand. 

Until Brighid shouted in pain. 

“That’s enough of that. One more move and I cut!”

The steam cleared to reveal the scuffle’s outcome. Somehow, Pachnall had managed to pin down Brighid’s arms with one arm. He had paid dearly for the dominance, however: pink, blistered patches of skin lined his chest and arms. He would soon have new scars to match the one on his neck. With the other, he clenched his dagger against her core crystal, stabbed right into the space between her flesh and the crystal. Blood seeped from the wound, leaving purple streaks along her skin. Any sudden moves and the dagger would plunge deeper into her chest, or worse, into the crystal. Not exactly a gamble Brighid wanted to make.

“Brighid!”

“Stay where you are or Brighid gets it. All of you.”

_ Not again. How does he keep doing this?  _

Surely he couldn’t manage to kill her, right? Pandoria had a good quarter of her core crystal missing—Brighid could survive a little damage. Or could she? It was common knowledge that Blades could regenerate from any injury as long as their crystals remained intact. But just how much damage crystals could sustain—that detail, no one seemed to know. Pachnall threatening to hurt Niall was one thing; deep down, she knew that Pachnall didn’t want to kill him. He seemed to believe he had some claim to the boy. Brighid, however, had no such connection. The only connection the Blade had was the scar she’d burned into his neck. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill her in revenge for that, or at least attempt to. 

The mere possibility that he might succeed paralyzed her all over again.

“Ciaran. It’s time for the last resort,” Pachnall ordered, still breathing hard from the struggle. “Remind Mòrag what happens when the Ardanachs underestimate me.”

The dark Blade turned to the Artigo’s control panel. The breath hitched in Mòrag’s throat when she realized which section his fingers touched: the armaments. The airship might have been old, but it was still equipped with rudimentary versions of Mor Ardain’s current artillery cannons. She looked out the window. During the fight, they must have damaged it; one panel was completely shattered, and the other was lined with jagged edges. But despite the marred glass, she could clearly see the scene beyond it—where the Artigo’s cannons inevitably pointed. 

The Ardainian defensive line. Their fleet. 

The lights in the Artigo flickered as the circuitry surged energy towards the weaponry. A loud hum accompanied the lights. The all-too-familiar burst of a discharged shell followed it. The shot rocketed forward, hurtling towards a ship in the vanguard. Fiery red tails trailed behind, painting their destructive path. Not that it would hit, Mòrag thought; all warships were equipped with ether defense mechanisms. The artillery would bounce harmlessly against an ether shield. Those shields were nearly impregnable.

The explosion proved her wrong. Red, orange, yellow—a disgustingly beautiful cloud. Then smoke and debris. 

“B-but the shields,” she stammered, still on her knees. Why wasn’t she doing anything? Why wouldn’t her body obey? 

Pachnall’s response dripped with smugness. “You forget that Ciaran specializes in remote ether manipulation. And thanks to the energy spilling off this dead Titan, he can interfere with ether flows titan peds away. Taking down your shields is child’s play to him now.”

She wished it was a lie. Since when was Ciaran so powerful? But the proof stared back at her. And yet—it wasn’t quite true, either. This wasn’t Pachnall’s “last resort.” He must have planned this all along.

“If any of you moves another finger without permission, another Ardainian ship goes down. So don’t try anything funny.”

Yes, that was it. They played right into his hands. The Artigo hadn’t taken to the skies when they boarded to separate them from their army; it flew to this height so Ciaran would have the right position to take aim at the fleet below...but only after the royals all climbed onboard. That was the linchpin in Pachnall’s plan. The Ardainian fleet was more than capable of blowing the Artigo out of the sky. Destroying a single, old ship wouldn’t even count as target practice. But with all three heirs to the Imperial throne—all four, technically—onboard, the brass on the ground wouldn’t give that order. They might as well sign the Empire’s own death warrant. Ciaran could keep on firing away at the fleet without risking retaliation. 

A nefarious, backhanded plan. And one that she should have seen coming. If only she’d kept a level head when planning this mission, she might have remembered how sly Pachnall was. And the man served as a general in her army even before she wore the uniform. He knew how the military would act even before she made a single order. 

McCallum. Macnealy. Buchanan. Vass. Lennox. And those were just the ranking officers on the ship Ciaran destroyed. How could she explain to their families her own gross miscalculation? What could she say to the mothers—that she’d rashly rushed off to save her own son, costing them theirs in the process? All because she didn’t anticipate her foe. 

...Someone needed to retaliate. If Pachnall fell, if Ciaran vanished with him, the shields would go back up. No one else would die.

One look at her teammates told her that they realized the same thing. But the panicked glances they threw from Brighid and Pachnall to Ciaran and back again showed that they felt as trapped as she did. One wrong move, and Brighid might die. The soldiers aboard the next airship—Ciaran had already taken aim to fire again—certainly would. 

Here they were, arguably Alrest’s most powerful squad of fighters, trapped because they couldn’t stoop to their enemy’s underhanded tactics. Zeke glanced back and forth from his current position to where Ciaran stood. The gap looked small, but he knew he couldn’t cover it before Ciaran would retaliate. Not with Niall slung over one shoulder and Ciaran eyeing him like a hawk. He wondered if maybe he’d given away his speed too early. If he so much as flinched, someone would get hurt. 

“Why are you doing this?” Mòrag asked, her voice unusually quiet. “What did I do to you to deserve this?”

“I didn’t give you permission to speak,” Pachnall replied, like a teacher reprimanding a child who hadn’t finished her homework.

Another explosion punctuated his statement.

“No!”

“You bastard! Architect help me, you’re gonna pay for that!” Zeke shouted. 

Pachnall turned his attention to Zeke, his dagger never leaving Brighid’s core. “Ciaran’s remote ether manipulation doesn’t usually work on humans. But you should be warned that it works quite well on Eaters.”

“You’re bluffing. Only Fan had that kind of power.”

The man grinned. “That Indoline wench? Sure, Ciaran’s ability is a bit different from hers, but it still works. Why don’t we give you a firsthand demonstration?”

This time, Ciaran didn’t wait for his master’s command. Before Zeke quite knew what was happening, three small spheres of purple ether latched onto the fragment of core crystal in his chest. The effect was instantaneous. Nothing like Fan La Norne’s Blade restricting abilities, though; Zeke knew that feeling well. Her powers felt like his body had turned to lead, making it nearly impossible to move. Her attacks caused enormous pressure, not pain. 

This, however, sent stabbing sensations throughout his chest. The pain forced him to his knees. A few feet away, Pandoria went down, too. It took all his strength not to drop Niall. All at once his core and heart seemed to be on fire as energy rushed through it. Not Ciaran’s ether energy, he realized. This energy was still his own, but somehow, Ciaran’s little orbs were forcing all the ether in his body to suddenly start flowing in the opposite direction. His senses went haywire. The metal floor seemed like soft grass beneath his fingertips. His eyes no longer registered whether it was day or night, if the lights were on or off. And were those ether lines appearing on his skin? His ears rang. A sweet taste ran across his tongue. But how could that be? Blood didn’t taste like this, and he thought he’d accidentally bitten his tongue on the way down. Electricity crackled on one of his palms without prompting. His gut told him to fire it at Ciaran, but his body wouldn’t obey. What if he accidentally hit one of his friends instead? 

So this was how Genbu felt when the ether accelerator sent him into a critical overload. Damn it. The cry of pain escaped his lips before he could stop it. 

“Please, stop! Don’t hurt him!” 

“He’s keeping us apart, Mòrag. You know I can’t let him live.”

The ether continued to rage backwards through his body. 

“Don’t kill him, please. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt him.”

Zeke couldn’t believe his ears. The voice sounded like Mòrag’s, and yet it didn’t. She couldn’t just give in. 

All at once, the pain stopped. His ether lines dimmed, but the purple orbs never left his chest. 

“What did you say?” Surprise lined Pachnall’s voice.

“You can do what you want with me. But please don’t kill anyone else. Please don’t hurt my family,” she pleaded.

“Mòrag, no! You don’t have to—”

Another surge of ether cut him off.

Pachnall paused, considering. “I always did like it when you begged. But I’m afraid I can’t do that, princess. He has to die. As do all your friends and countrymen in this valley.”

“Why are you doing this? What good does it do you?” 

“I’m doing this for  _ us,  _ Mòrag. And for revenge on all those fools who’ve tried to keep us apart all these years. As long as the Empire exists, as long as people like him live, we can never be together. You’ll never love me until they’re all gone.”

“Damn you. You’re out of your mind.”

Pachnall shook his head. “When they’re all gone, when I’m all that’s left for you, you’ll need me. You’ll forgive me for this eventually. Ciaran, finish them off.”

During the exchange, Brighid had remained perfectly still, frantically racking her brain for a way out of this. She knew what she needed to do; her thoughts kept jumping back to the window behind her—they stood mere peds from it. And with the damage it sustained during the duel, breaking through wouldn’t take much effort. Pachnall’s tendon injury would only make it easier. She might even survive it. Or the dagger would sink further into her chest and that would be the end of it. Even now, the sharp edge of the weapon scratched against both core crystal and flesh each time she breathed. If she didn’t move fast or powerfully enough, her gamble would amount to nothing. But surely there had to be some other option. Between the five Drivers and their Blades, they ought to think of something…

Not that Pachnall would give them the luxury of thinking it through. It was her life or thousands. 

Brighid stared at Aegaeon until he finally made eye contact with her. She held his gaze, mouthing her instructions to him. One word.  _ Shield.  _ The watery depths in his eyes shallowed when he ascertained her plan. He shook his head. She glared back, insistent. 

At last, a single nod. He would await her signal. 

Three. Two. One, she mouthed.

Mòrag and her companions recognized the blue sphere that burst into existence overhead: the same one they saw at Indol. But protective as it was, it filled them all with dread. Aegaeon only ever unleashed that forcefield when drastic measures were taken. Ciaran moved to fire again. His fingers never closed around the trigger; at the same instant Aegaeon produced the shield, the room flashed white-hot with an explosion of azure flame. Brighid transformed herself into a living death pyre. The air rang with the roar of fire and shrieks of pain. Where Pachnall’s shouts ended and Brighid’s began, no one could tell. But they ended just as quickly as they began, cut short by the sound of shattering glass.

The Jewel of Mor Ardain threw herself out the window, taking Pachnall with her.

_ “Brighid!!!”  _

In the chaos that followed, Rex’s anchor shot forward, lodging itself in Ciaran’s flesh. With a mighty heave, he yanked the dark Blade away from the control panel. But by the time he reeled the anchor back, there was no longer a Ciaran attached to it—just a dull, dormant core crystal. 

Mòrag clung to what remained of the window, numb to the pain and the blood seeping between her fingers as the shards of glass dug through her gloves. Brighid. A fall like that...Pachnall’s dagger at her crystal. Which killed faster: flame, gravity, or knifepoint? A little pain wouldn’t make Pachnall withdraw his knife. And that could only mean…

_ “And she’s made it quite clear that she doesn’t deserve my trust.” _

Someone tugged at her waist, pulling her away from the window. She struggled to stay put—she could see a sea of blue flames beneath, and part of her hoped that the heat would lift the Blade out of the rubble like a hot air balloon—but the arms proved stronger. They turned her around and pulled her back into the room itself.

Zeke. 

“Brighid, she’s gone, and the last thing I-I said—” The words came out in a panicked burst.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. We’ll go down and—”

Regret smashed into her chest. “No, you don’t understand! The  _ last thing  _ I said to her was that I didn’t trust her! I didn’t mean it, but that was the last thing I ever told her!”

“But it wasn’t,” Zeke insisted calmly. “Look.”

He nodded towards the floor, where a pair of whipswords lay. Precisely where she dropped them. And if the swords were still here, then—

“Brighid’s alive.”

“Yeah.”

Relief washed over her, and she sank into his hug. They both winced in unison: Mòrag for the touch to her ribs and Zeke for the pressure against his core crystal.

“Are you all right?” she asked, blinking away the memory of the purple orbs wreaking havoc on his ether flow. To see him so helpless made her shudder. 

“Just a little tender, I think. It should go away on its own.” His face paled. “Shit, your side...Did he break your ribs? The baby...”

Her heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t stopped to consider that possibility. “Nia?”

The Flesh Eater didn’t really need to be summoned; she had already covered half the distance. The Gormotti set to work immediately, one hand on each royal. Ether streamed over them both like water, bringing a wave of cooling relief with it. 

“Sheesh, Shellhead. It’s like you electrocuted your own ether circuitry.”

Zeke grimaced. “I’ll be okay. Just check on the baby, please.”

Nia shut her eyes, concentrating on the flow of ether. “Your kid’s fine. Not as hard-headed as you yet, but fine. The kick hit high enough on Mòrag’s rib cage that nothing important was damaged. Baby probably never even felt a thing.”

“And Niall?” Mòrag asked.

“Oi, lemme finish one thing at a time.”

Nia’s healing didn’t take long; it never did. Her diagnosis of the young Emperor was equally quick: he was practically unscathed. There was no real damage to speak of aside from the cut on his cheek, which healed easily. Not a trace of it remained. And the drugs used to sedate him were completely harmless. Mòrag’s suspicion that Pachnall didn’t intend to hurt him proved true, it seemed.

“I can flush the drugs out of his system, if you want him to wake up right away,” Nia volunteered. “Or they’ll dissipate on their own.”

“...Let him sleep for now. He’s been through enough as it is,” Mòrag decided. As much as she wanted to talk with him, to feel reassured by the sound of his voice, she’d rather have privacy for that conversation. And time to spare; she had fifteen years’ worth of explaining to do.

For several moments, they all lingered, too stunned and relieved to do much of anything.

“So what do now?” Tora asked at last. “Fly ship home?”

Mòrag shook her head. “After the damage this airship has done, we should land and return to base camp on foot. That should be the safer approach. And I expect there are a few Aramach left on board. They may come out of hiding and try to stop us.”

“Leave that to us,” Rex volunteered. “We’ll mop up the stragglers. You guys stay here with the Emperor and get us on the ground. Sound good?”

Everyone agreed with that course of action. And they made short work of it, too. Before long, the airship was back on the ground, and all remaining Aramach within were either defeated or subdued and locked in the ship’s brig. They could be dealt with later. 

But once they stood back on solid ground, they realized just how far the Artigo had flown from the depths of the valley. From the air, the distance didn’t seem like much. But now they could tell that the Ardainian base camp sat several titanpeds away. They had a long walk ahead of them and possibly more combat; the conflict between the Ardainian army and the remaining Aramach still raged on.

“...We should probably take a break before we head out there,” Zeke volunteered. He considered suggesting they make use of the Artigo’s barracks for a nap and some food, but Mòrag needed to be off that ship. They all did, really. At least it had stopped raining, and this region of the valley had a little vegetation for cover and comfort. Not the ideal place to make camp, but it would have to do. “Please tell me I’m not the only one feeling drained after that.”

“Tora pooped.” The Nopon required no additional prompting; he plopped himself down to rest.

“A break couldn’t hurt,” Rex agreed. 

The only one to protest was Mòrag. “I’d rather get the Emperor home as soon as possible. And what about Brighid? She’s out there alone.”

Dromarch spoke up, lowering into a lying position so the others could pull Niall from his back. “Lady Brighid can sense your presence, my lady. She will be able to track you through your resonance. But would it not be easier for her to find us if we remain in one place for a few hours?”

“That’s true, but—”

“Friend Mòrag need sleep. She look exhausted,” Poppi pointed out. “Brighid would say fatigue is silent killer. Better rest soon.”

Mòrag relented, and the group settled down, making themselves as comfortable as they could. Since the region was mostly rocky and there was nothing to make a fire with (nothing dry, anyway), Pyra summoned a small sphere of her own fire to help them keep warm. Then they all choked down their field rations in relative silence. It wasn’t the first time they’d sat huddled around a makeshift fire after a near-death experience. Those close calls had always managed to sober everyone up, even Zeke. But tonight, the silence felt different. Deep down, everyone wanted to talk. But no one knew where to begin. 

Rex’s curiosity finally got the better of him. “Mòrag, that guy...about what he said. Um, what was he talking about?”

“Rex, that’s not someth—” Zeke warned.

Mòrag cut him off with a gentle hand to his leg. “It’s all right. After everything they just saw and heard, I think our friends deserve to know the truth. We should tell them.”

“Do you want me to explain? I know it’s hard to talk about.”

She shook her head. “I-it should be me.”

She paused, glancing back and forth between her husband and the still-unconscious Emperor. Zeke gave an encouraging nod. 

“...When I was twelve, I resonated with Brighid and was recognized as the Empire’s crown princess. My uncle, the Emperor at the time, brought in a tutor just for me.”

“That man with scary scarred face?” Tora interjected.

“Masterpon should not interrupt.”

Mòrag explained the rest as succinctly as possible: Pachnall’s crime, Niall’s birth, the Emperor’s cover-up for it all. Most details she glossed over—better to tell them the bare minimum than to risk reliving the hardest parts. The day had been emotionally draining enough as it was. Once the tale was told, her companions fell silent. And as expected, their faces shone with a mix of expressions from shock, sympathy, sadness, and respect all at once. But no pity.

Dromarch gathered his thoughts the fastest. “I see. By taking the child as his own, Emperor Nealon ensured that you were sheltered from a public scandal and fulfilled the need for a male heir at the same time. Quite astute.”

“And until recently, his lie held. Not even Niall knew.” Mòrag cleared her throat. “I cannot demand that you all keep this information to yourselves, but I am asking you to.”

Everyone nodded; Mòrag could tell they’d do as she asked. 

“Y-you had a baby when you were just fourteen?” Rex stammered in disbelief. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, Mòrag. You poor thing,” Pyra whispered. “No wonder you fight so hard to protect him.”

“Then when you married Shellhead here—”

“I wanted to keep Niall from having to marry so young. It was a political marriage of necessity at first, but well, it worked out better than I hoped. I certainly didn’t expect to fall in love.” She managed a small smile and nuzzled a little closer to Zeke.

“Mòrag is blushy-crushy for Zeke now,” Poppi observed.

Nia snorted loudly, and Rex looked like he might choke on his last bite of food.

“Poppi, please  _ never _ use ‘Mòrag’ and ‘blushy-crushy’ in the same sentence. Like, ever again,” Nia said once she regained some semblance of composure. 

The group asked a few more questions, but eventually the conversation lulled as fatigue overpowered their now-sated curiosity. Tora was the first to fall asleep, and Poppi dutifully cooled her drive furnace and plopped into hibernation mode beside him (after muttering something about “adjusting blushy-crushy settings to account for new data,” whatever that meant). Rex and Pyra volunteered to keep watch, noting that they were probably the least exhausted out of the entire group. For a while, Mòrag sat motionless, watching Niall while he slept. She feared that if she shut her eyes long enough, he might disappear again. Or maybe she would find herself trapped on the Artigo again, captured. Was it really over?

Zeke seemed to read her thoughts. “He’s dead, Mòrag. We all saw Ciaran go back into his core crystal. Everything’s going to be okay now.”

“...I know. My brain just doesn’t want to believe it.”

“Maybe it’ll sink in once we get him home safe and sound. But for now, try to get some sleep.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Please don’t fight me on this, Mòrag. You’ve been going on without sleep for over two days. You need to rest, even if it’s just a couple hours. And besides, when Niall wakes up, he’ll probably have lots of questions for you. Don’t you think it would be better to have that conversation when you’re not emotional from lack of sleep?”

“Perhaps. Just promise me you’ll wake me if he gets up?”

“You got it. I’ll wake you if Brighid gets back, too.”

“Good...I love you, Thunderbolt Zeke.”

He smiled and pulled her closer. Despite Mòrag’s fears to the contrary, sleep came easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Wow. He’s finally dead and gone. This moment has been in the works for so long that I can hardly believe it’s actually written down. 
> 
> As you can probably guess, this kinda marks the last big conflict in the story. After a couple chapters or so of falling action/wrap-up, this fic will finally come to a close. Huh. Seems surreal to me. That said, I hope you’ll stay tuned for the little bit that remains.


	28. The Tomorrow With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! (Okay, it’s a little late, but the sentiment still applies). Here’s a new chapter to celebrate.

_“No nap, Momo. No nap!”_

_His little fists thudded against her clavicle. This exchange had become something of a routine in the wake of the prince’s “terrible twos,” but time away from his typical nursery in Gormott had found the young royal escaping his governess before naptime on a daily basis. Even as tiny as he was, he’d learned that his sister had a sort of soft spot for him. If anyone would grant him three or four minutes out of bed, it was she._

_“Why you dwessed up, Momo?”_

_Morag looked at her dressing gown and frowned. “Dressed up” wasn’t the right term for it; after all, she hadn’t even touched her apparel for the evening. But for Niall, who always saw her in pants and a blouse or training clothes, this probably looked almost dressy. Would he even recognize her once preparations were complete?_

_She gave him a little smile and disentangled his fingers from her collar. “For the same reason you need to take a nap: to be ready for the party tonight.”_

_“What pawty?”_

_“My birthday party. And because you’re my favorite, you’re invited.”_

_The prince’s eyes widened. “Cake?”_

_Morag laughed; he was only just beginning to grasp the concept of a birthday, but the sweets that accompanied those celebrations had certainly stuck in his young mind. He was far too young to understand the nuances of tonight’s event--her coming-of-age ceremony. For a lady of the royal family with no right to the throne, it was nothing more than a formal recognition as an Ardainian adult._

_Cake might just be the highlight of the evening, she realized._

_“Yes, you can have cake. But only if you nap like a good little prince first.”_

_He pouted. “Don’t wanna nap. I want cake.”_

_At that moment, Niall’s governess appeared, whisking the boy out of Morag’s arms and apologizing profusely for the interruption._

_“I really don’t know how he keeps managing to do this, ma’am. I promise I’m watching him like a hawk. So sorry to disturb you like this.”_

_“It’s really quite all right,” Morag insisted, smoothing out her robe. “Visits from my baby brother will always be my favorite.”_

_Niall grinned. Then, his little mind wrapped around the knowledge that his governess’s presence meant he would not get his way after all, and he fussed all over again. Morag ignored his protests this time and dismissed the governess--but not until after she planted a kiss on his forehead. With her room empty once again, she sighed heavily and plopped back into the chair her Blade stood behind. Brighid resumed the task she’d been doing just before Niall’s interruption. Her fingers felt warm against Morag’s neck as she gently pulled them through her hair. It was soothing, in a way._

_“Just the braid we talked about,” Morag said at last._

_“Of course.”_

_Morag watched with rapt attention as Brighid’s fingers caught up wisp after wisp of hair, weaving every stray lock into a perfect, seamless braid. Not for the last time did she wonder how much different this moment would be if Niall had been born a girl. Then she might have chosen a different hairstyle: one that left ample room for a tiara befitting the country’s crown princess, not the simple little royal circlet she would wear tonight. But then she might not be leaving for military training the next week, either._

_“You’re going to miss him, aren’t you?” Brighid asked._

_That much went without saying. She would be gone for three months. And at his young age, he would probably grow intensely. He’d learn any number of new words. New skills, even. He might even learn how to pronounce the letter ‘r’ properly. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to use the ‘Momo’ nickname anymore._

_“I-I always knew this day would come. But he and I...we’ll have to walk different paths in life. There’s no reason to keep putting it off.”_

_“The training should go quickly,” Brighid commented, tying off the end of the braid with a red ribbon. “And I’m certain you’ll excel. With your skills, you ought to be allowed to skip most of it.”_

_Morag turned to face her Blade. “It’s a matter of earning the respect of my comrades,” she explained simply. “If I don’t endure the same training they do, they’ll always think I got my position on account of my station. And that simply will not do.”_

_“True.”_

_“I_ **_am_ ** _glad that you’ll be coming with me, however,” Morag pointed out._

_That much was true. Most military cadets entered bootcamp unaccompanied, and interested recruits could attempt to resonate with a Blade during the third week of training. Those few that had Blades, however, were allowed--expected, even--to bring their Blades along. So at least she would have one small aspect of normalcy in her life during the training. That said, the thought of Brighid, the conspicuous and almost legendary Jewel of Mor Ardain, sloughing it in the wilderness with a ragtag band of greenhorn soldiers did make her smirk a bit._

_“My only place is at your side, Lady Morag. It always has been, and it always will be.”_

_“How many times must I ask you to simply call me by my name?” Morag asked. “You used to do it all the time. What changed?”_

_“You are an adult now, my lady. And by all rights, you should be Empress.”_

_“Don’t start with that again, Brighid. And anyway, my station--or lack thereof--should make little difference to you. You are my partner and my family, not my servant. You have quite literally seen me at my worst. If anything, it is I who should strive to be worthy of you, not the other way around.”_

_Brighid frowned. “I can think of no better Driver. It is my honor to serve you.”_

_“Our Jewel deserves better than to be a glorified babysitter to a princess and her secret son.”_

_“If I am by your side, then it doesn’t matter what I do. If you chose to throw it all away and work at a horse stable, I would toil away in manure to be at your side. I am your Blade, Morag. In good times and bad. And I believe there are good times ahead yet.”_

The first thing Morag noticed when she opened her eyes was that the voice to her left wasn’t Brighid’s. No; it was two voices--a still-breaking adolescent male voice and a tempered, soft-spoken female voice. Rex and Pyra, whispering alongside their makeshift fire as they kept watch.

Oh. It had been a dream after all. A vivid one, but nothing more than a memory of days gone past. But why _that_ particular memory? And why now? One glance around the fire reminded her why that scene played in her subconscious mind: her friends, her husband, and her son all slept near her. But one familiar figure was missing.

Brighid. Just how long had they been apart?

She reached through the ether, searching for the Blade’s presence as if she were straining to hear a melody far away. And the longer she searched, the bigger the pang of guilt in her gut became. For Brighid to still be so far away didn’t bode well. She could be lying in a ditch, unable to climb out on her own. 

_Brighid could be dying, and I’m here sleeping._

Before she quite knew what she was doing, Morag slipped out from underneath Zeke’s arm and stood up. A wave of dizziness and exhaustion clouded her vision, but she blinked it away. Brighid needed her. Of that much she was sure. And after all that her Blade had done for her, she could endure a little discomfort and fatigue. She had to. “I don’t trust you” couldn’t be the last thing Brighid heard from her.

“Morag? You okay?”

Morag nodded and picked up Brighid’s whipswords, sliding them into their customary positions on each hip. “I...I’m worried about Brighid. I’m going to go look for her.”

“I’ll wake the others, then,” Rex volunteered.

“Let them sleep. I can do this alone,” she replied.

“It’s not safe out there. And you still look exhausted. Somebody should go with you. Pyra?”

The Aegis gave Morag a knowing glance and shook her head. 

“Let’s wake Zeke, then. He’d help.”

“Rex, leave it be. Morag can handle this on her own,” Pyra interjected. 

“If I’m not back in two hours, go on without me. Get Niall home.”

“...Okay?”

Morag nodded gratefully to Pyra and set out. Perhaps Rex was right; maybe it was _wiser_ to bring the Aegis along, but...no. This would have to do. 

Brighid’s presence was faint. Morag’s gut told her that the Blade was a titanped or two away--not a _long_ journey by any means, but far enough that the distance felt daunting. More than once, Morag had to stop short and listen for her ether signature and find her bearings. But each step brought her a little closer. Not that Brighid’s presence got any stronger; in fact, it seemed to be weakening. Somehow, though, Morag knew she made progress with each step.

She did not, however, see the Blade until she was right on top of her. 

The first glance at the scene made Morag vomit. On one hand, the carnage gave her a sense of relief--or at least the carnage inflicted on one figure did. A ped or two away from Brighid lay a mangled corpse. It could hardly be recognized as a human corpse, really--the burn damage was severe enough, charring away any trace of flesh or hair or facial features. But the fall had wreaked its own havoc, too, wrenching the body into a twisted mass of contorted limbs and scorched bones. The only recognizable feature was the right hand. The two fingers that remained clenched around the handle of a knife. The rest of the weapon seemed to have melted away or broken off.

He was really dead, then. At long last the knot in her heart disentangled itself, leaving behind a sort of emptiness in its wake. She paused. How ironic this was; she ought to feel relieved, thankful that justice had been served. But in that moment, all she could think of was the profound impact this now-crackling corpse had on her life. Much of his influence was terrible--the worst sort, really. So much darkness had come from his actions. And yet, in an ironic, twisted way, so much good had come from it, too. Niall. Taking the roll of Special Inquisitor, a task much better suited to her proficiency on the battlefield. And then, in turn, because she wasn’t Empress, she’d been able to travel to Elysium with Rex and the others. 

She struggled to come up with the right word for it. “Gratitude” certainly didn’t fit. She still wished the hurt in her past could have been avoided...and yet she couldn’t imagine being anyone else. For better or worse, Pachnall had changed who she was. Profoundly so.

And now he was dead. That dark chapter of her life could finally be closed for good.

She took a deep, cleansing breath before surveying the rest of the scene.

Morag found the other half of the dagger in the precise position she both expected and dreaded to see it: still stuck in Brighid’s chest. The Blade herself looked almost as damaged as her opponent, but instead of burnt skin, she was covered in a slick mess of purplish ichor, rainwater, and mud. The muck dampened Brighid’s fires, too; her customary blue glow was gone. And like Pachnall’s corpse, Brighid’s limbs had the same jumbled look to them. If not for the fact that Brighid still had a recognizable body--she hadn’t reverted to her core crystal--Morag might have feared that she was dead. 

Morag held her breath and watched for Brighid’s. It was subtle, but she saw the rise and fall of Brighid’s chest. She fell to her knees beside the Blade, willing her own body to stop shaking. Brighid was all right...for now. But she wouldn’t be for long. With the rain and the sheer amount of ether she must have expended to immolate her foe, Brighid’s body seemed incapable of healing on her own. If she was healing, it was at an agonizingly slow pace. 

And then there was the knife blade stuck in her crystal. Morag pulled it out and tossed it aside, swallowing hard at the blood dripping from it. Even with the weapon fragment gone, she still couldn’t quite see the full extent of the damage. Too much blood and dirt got in the way. But she saw enough to know that part of Brighid’s core had been damaged. Knowing just how badly would require a cleaner environment, however.

“You damn fool. Where do you get the right to throw yourself out of an airship to protect me?” Morag said aloud. 

Here was another person who’d profoundly affected who she was, Morag realized. But for the better, in every sense. 

“I knew you’d find me.”

Morag stopped short and looked to her Blade. Brighid spoke? But she appeared unconscious, with eyes clamped shut and a pained expression on her face. Had that been a fluke, the ramblings of a person struggling to stay alive? Or was Brighid semi-conscious? Morag waited to hear what the Blade would say next, but she slipped back into that blurred state of inhaling and exhaling over and over in shallow gasps.

Maybe Brighid could just sense her presence. The bond between Driver and Blade always was a curious thing. 

“Of course I found you. You promised to be at my side in good times and bad. And I’m not about to let you go back on your word. Now, come with me. Let’s go home.”

The Blade stayed motionless, leaving Morag with no choice but to carry her. If she didn’t get Brighid to Nia soon, then…

Another drop of adrenaline seemed to inject itself into her veins, and Morag sprung into action. She braced herself for the exertion--basic tasks were getting harder already, her fatigue notwithstanding--and dragged the Blade onto her back. Simply keeping a good grip on her legs proved hard enough; the blood and water slickened the other woman’s skin. And even though Morag had carried Brighid a handful of times, the Blade had never felt this heavy. But was that the water, her own fatigue, or the fact that Brighid was truly dead weight this time? The next realization frightened Morag further: the figure on her back felt cold. Brighid felt _cold._ So cold that the chill seeped into her own body. In passing, Morag wondered if Brighid, in a desperate attempt to survive, was pulling ether from the most readily available source: her own Driver. It turned the whole Driver-Blade relationship on its head, of course. But so did this entire situation. A Blade shouldn’t be able to sacrifice herself for her Driver. They ought to be immortal. But Brighid seemed to have found a way. And now she was desperately clinging to life, subconsciously grasping at the only ether she could touch. Or was Morag just imagining things? Surely Brighid wouldn’t pull at her Driver’s own life force. But the cold in Morag’s body certainly felt like ether loss. Its effects immediately disoriented her. The icy sensation pulled on the corners of her exhaustion, begging her to set Brighid down, curl up beside her, and go to sleep. 

Yes, sleep. Zeke had wanted her to rest, right? And surely Brighid needed rest, too. Maybe a short nap wouldn’t hurt...

_Pull it together, Morag. Follow Aegaeon’s ether signature. Don’t stop walking!_

“Brighid, if you can hear me, I need you to...don’t pull ether from me,” she gasped. Suddenly even breathing took incredible focus. “I-I can’t. Your...your swords. The crystals should have a little ether left in them. Take that instead.”

Coming alone had been a very bad idea, she realized. Supporting herself and her growing child was one thing, especially in her rundown state. But supporting Brighid, too--even just her Blade’s weight, not to mention the unexpected ether drain--felt like the four corners of the map had grabbed all four of her limbs and pulled in all directions, stretching her out far beyond what her body could handle. Instinct told her to drop Brighid and crawl to get help; if Brighid kept subconsciously pulling on her own ether supply, they’d both end up dead. In passing, Morag wondered if this was how Zeke and Pandoria felt when one of them was injured--a symbiotic relationship gone wrong. 

But Morag also knew that if she left Brighid behind and went ahead to get help, they’d return to nothing but a dull core crystal. Maybe she could resonate with it again... _if_ it ever turned blue after the damage it sustained. But even then, it wouldn’t be Brighid. Not the Brighid who’d comforted her during nightmares. Who snatched her out of the jaws of Death over and over again. Who hounded her to get adequate rest even before there was a baby in the picture. The Brighid who’d laughed, cried, hoped, mourned, dreamed with her. The only one who truly understood. And now, it seemed, the one who, for better or worse, had shouldered the secret of Pachnall’s survival in hopes of helping her heal.

What a heavy burden that must have been all these years, Morag realized.

The same moment she came to that realization, she realized something else: the strain on her arms and muscles didn’t feel so bad anymore. Brighid still felt cold, but her body seemed lighter. Somehow, despite her injury-induced delirium, the Blade must have switched her ether source from her Driver to their whipswords. How long that source would hold out was another matter entirely, however. 

“Please hold on, Brighid. I don’t want to face tomorrow without you. I need you. And I refuse to let you fall in a place like this.”

Each footfall came a little easier now, and her pace quickened. Before too long, Morag found herself whispering silent prayers of thanks to the Architect when the camp came into view.

Dead or not, the Architect would never hear those prayers. They were completely overpowered by her companions’ outbursts at her return. A lot of things happened at once: Zeke and Rex pulled Brighid off her back (and Zeke proceeded to scold her for venturing off alone). Dromarch summoned an orb of water to clean away the muck and blood; Nia tossed one healing Art after another into the unconscious Blade. Pyra grabbed additional food and water for Morag, and Tora bounced about volunteering to help but not doing a very good job with the few tasks given to him. 

“Nia, tell me she’ll be alright. You can heal her, right?”

The Gormotti hissed in response, her attention hardly leaving the Blade. Everyone knew what that response meant: _shut up if you want her to live._ For Nia not to talk mid-healing meant the situation demanded her undivided attention. Few cases ever required such intense focus from her. And so the group’s uproar faded into silence almost as quickly as it began. There was a long intense silence as both Nia and Dromarch pushed wave after wave of soothing ether into the Blade.

All the external injuries faded slowly, with one exception: Brighid’s core crystal. With the mud and blood washed away, Morag finally got a better look at it. At some point in their midair struggle, Pachnall must have shifted his dagger, likely before Brighid’s flames completely overwhelmed him. The knife tore off a fragment of crystal. It was small--not much more than a small splinter--but the sight of it made Nia frown all over again.

“Nia?”

“I...I don’t know what to do. Crystals aren’t made of cells. I don’t know how to make it grow back.”

“She’ll be okay though, right?” Pyra asked. 

“Physically, she’s fine now. Her injuries aren’t gonna make her curl back into her core crystal or anything. But…” the Gormotti rested two fingers against the crystal. Her eyes closed as she concentrated on Brighid’s ether flow. “With her crystal in this state, I don’t know if she’ll wake up or not.”

“Can’t you fix it somehow?”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know. It’s not the same as regenerating tissue or regenerating a Blade weapon. Remember what Klaus told us? Cores are _data,_ not tissue.”

“Please try. I-I can’t lose her, Nia.”

“Wait, Pyra!” Rex exclaimed. “Didn’t you heal Jin’s core crystal back in Morytha?”

In a burst of ether, Mythra took over. She nodded. “But that was back when I still had the Conduit’s power. That energy left with Klaus.”

“You might not have the Conduit anymore, but you’re still technically the Master Blade, right? The Aegises were made to send data about Blade evolution to the Architect. You’ve known Brighid for a really long time. Maybe you have some of Brighid’s core data stored in your memories!”

“Rex, don’t be stupid. That’s not--”

Mythra shook her head. “He might be onto something. It’s worth a try, anyway. But I’m not sure I can do it here. I’d need a quiet place where I can focus. Without the Conduit I’m going to have to do a lot of thinking to find that data.”

“And anyway, Brighid’s gonna need constant ether transfusions until her core’s fixed,” Nia added. “The sooner we get on that, the better.”

Zeke finally spoke up. “There’s a pretty good sickbay on the flagship. The equipment there should hold her over until we get back to Hardhaigh.”

“Then let’s get moving.”

* * *

The hours and days that passed blurred together in a mix of relief and concern, triumph and regret. It wasn’t until they reached Hardhaigh that Mythra first attempted to make repairs to Brighid’s core crystal. As Nia predicted, the core was damaged enough that the Blade couldn’t wake, trapping her in a comatose state. Mythra, however, did manage to transfer missing data into Brighid’s core crystal. But to everyone’s dismay, the effects were not immediate. Brighid remained unconscious, and the core crystal itself still looked chipped. Perhaps without the Conduit, resupplying data--not completely reassembling a core crystal--was the best the Aegis could do. 

“I’ve done what I can,” Mythra had explained. “I think with the data restored, the core might reassemble itself, but it will take some time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m only guessing here, but I think it’s like a dormant core crystal. Used Blades have to stay dormant for a while to reabsorb energy and wipe away the memory data inside them for the next Driver. And if the core sustained any damage, that has to be repaired, too. They can’t be reawakened until that process is complete. This isn’t exactly the same, but I think there’s a good chance she’ll reawaken with enough time.”

“Reawaken, you say. Does that mean she’ll have her memories or not?”

“I think she’ll be the old Brighid. After all, she hasn’t returned to her crystal. And as far as I can tell, her current memory data is intact. She’s got a chance.”

_She’ll pull through. Brighid is a fighter. She’s too stubborn to fall like this._

But no matter how many times Morag reassured herself of that fact, another nagging doubt ate away at her: what if her last words to Brighid had destroyed her desire to come back? The look on Brighid’s face when she told her to get out of the Palace...not for the last time did Morag curse herself for reacting so rashly. She had to find a way to make it up to her. And so every day, Morag visited her Blade’s bedside, sitting and talking for the better part of an hour. She clung to the hope that somehow, Brighid heard her--and that her daily visits would assure her that all had been forgiven. 

For weeks, the palace echoed with whispers about how empty the Inquisitor’s presence seemed without her Blade. But for the first few days following their return, other gossip accompanied the whispers about Brighid: idle chit-chat about the Emperor’s whereabouts. To Morag’s relief, none of the whispers contained any information about Niall’s true identity. By some last mercy of the Architect, only her companions knew the truth. How it had stayed confidential in spite of everything baffled her. Instead, the gossip stemmed from the fact that the young Emperor had shut himself up in his room. As soon as they returned, Niall told his chamber guards that he should not be disturbed under any circumstances. Then he retreated to his private quarters. The public was told that the Emperor did not feel well; Morag knew differently.

Days went by. Still he did not emerge.

“He’s angry with me. Isn’t he?” Morag asked Zeke on the third afternoon of Niall’s isolationism. 

“I dunno if Niall’s really the sort of person to get angry. He probably just needs some space to think through everything.”

“...I’m going to go talk to him.”

“What if he refuses to see you?”

“I don’t care anymore. I can’t let him stew over this. I have to try to talk to him, at least,” Morag sighed. “I-I’ve already damaged my relationship with Brighid by refusing to talk things over with her. I might never get the chance to fix it. So how could I possibly risk destroying my relationship with Niall, too?”

Zeke shook his head. “You’re going to sit by his door until he lets you in, aren’t you?” 

“If it comes to that.”

“I’ll take care of your duties in the meantime. And if you’re there a while, I’ll bring you dinner.”

For a few moments on her walk to Niall’s suite, Morag wondered if the guards would even let her in. Her military seniority did little good when they received a direct order from the Emperor himself. But to her relief, when she asked for a moment alone with him, they simply nodded and left their posts beside his door. When they were gone, she knocked gently. 

“Your Majesty, may I come in?” She paused, waiting for an answer, but heard none. Surely he wouldn’t still be in bed at this hour. “Niall, please talk to me. Let me explain.”

She thought she heard movement from within the room, but no answer came. He _was_ going to be stubborn, then. Very well. Two could play at that game. She turned around and slid into a seated position with her back against his door.

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” she called. “And I think we both know that I’m more stubborn than you, so you might as well open the door.”

Still no response. Minutes ticked by, and her mind began waltzing through old memories of the boy on the other side of the door. The boy who usually smiled sweetly at everyone, whose mental fortitude and ingenuity more than compensated for his lackluster physical prowess. The boy who’d been forced to shoulder the burden of an entire country at a tender age. And now she managed to throw yet another burden on him. 

If only they could go back to the carefree days--to those quiet, intimate moments in the wee hours of the morning when no one else was around. When they didn’t need to worry about the outside world that would criticize their complicated relationship. Where they could simply _be_. 

“You know, this reminds me of when you were first born,” she said, reminiscing aloud. “At first, you struggled to nurse. You’d fight to take a few swallows and wear yourself out and fall asleep. Sometimes I even had to wake you up so you could finish eating. You hated it when I did that. Even then you had a bit of a stubborn streak. But no matter how many times you fought me at feeding time, no matter how tired I was, I always kept trying because I knew it was what was best for you.” She paused. “And eventually, we figured it out. Together. I want to figure this whole affair out together, too. Granted, it’s more complicated than nursing, but we can still work through it. But only if you open up and talk to me. Please, Your Majesty.”

After what felt like an eternity, the door clicked open.

“I’m not sure I want people calling me ‘Majesty’ anymore. You least of all.”

He said nothing more and merely stepped back into the room, leaving the door open behind him. Morag stood--she noted that it wouldn’t be as easy to rise from this position in another few weeks--and followed him in, careful to latch it behind her.

The first thing she noticed was the dilapidated appearance of his apartments. His servants aside (who, in normal circumstances, would clean his chambers multiple times per day), Niall usually preferred to keep his room immaculate. The worst a mess ever got was a pile of paperwork on his desk or half-finished books on end tables within his study. He even made his own bed simply because he detested looking at all the covers turned down. Now, however, the bed remained unmade, a blanket torn off completely and thrown into a corner. Several books lay scattered about on the floor, as if he’d pulled them from the shelves and gotten too lost in thought to actually read them. A tray of food sat on his desk; only two or three bites of the ruskan sandwich were missing. Morag didn’t have to touch the full teacup to know that it had cooled completely. 

But the room’s appearance was nothing compared to his own. Niall sat himself back down in front of the window--not on the sofa right beside it, she noted. And judging by the dent in the carpet, he’d been sitting in that exact spot for hours on end. His hair stuck together in half-greasy, uncombed bunches. Deep-set wrinkles lined his clothes, too--the same ones he wore when he was rescued. And the look in his eyes told her that his appearance was in such disrepair simply because he’d been doing nothing more than sitting and thinking. Maybe he’d slept; maybe he hadn’t. 

Morag bit back a comment on his appearance and sat down beside him instead. 

“You can ask me whatever you want. No questions are off-limits. Not anymore.”

He finally made direct eye contact with her, as if studying the truth of her claim to answer anything. Apparently satisfied, he turned his gaze back to the window and spoke.

“Is what that man said really true? Are you really my mother?”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

If Niall seemed bothered that she answered his first question with another question, he didn’t show it. His face stuck in its stoic but confused and frustrated expression.

“H-he said that he was your first lover, and that I was the result of your relationship with him,” he answered simply.

The words struck her like a stab to the chest. Of course Pachnall had twisted the truth. A liar to the last. And Niall had been left for days to wonder about the truth of his existence. She should have come to talk to him sooner. 

“That’s not entirely true,” she whispered back. “Yes, you were born because of my relationship with him. But it...it was an abusive relationship. He wasn’t my lover. He was my private combat instructor, and he took advantage of his position to rape me.”

Niall’s eyes fell back to his lap. He bit his lip as if he were both relieved and disgusted to hear that answer. “He is--he _was_ my father, then.”

“Biologically, yes. But not legally or practically speaking. Emperor Nealon was.”

“And you’re my mother.”

“...Yes.”

He twiddled with the corner of his shirttail. “How old were you when I was born?”

“I was your age. A few months younger, if you care to split hairs.”

He shook his head. Maybe he was trying to banish the shock of it?

“Then how I became Emperor…”

“Emperor Nealon sent me to live in Gormott before my pregnancy became public knowledge. Then he let everyone believe Lady Annabelle was pregnant. So when you were born, the world thought you were his child, not mine. And since you were a boy, by law, the throne went to you when he died. If I had taken the crown, the truth would have come out.”

It was a long time before Niall spoke again. 

“After everything that happened to you, you never should have been forced to get married. I shouldn’t have let you go through with it.”

“You promised you weren’t going to worry about that anymore.”

“But I didn’t know _this_ at the time. You didn’t even want to get married, did you?”

“No,” she answered honestly. For all her assurances to him to the contrary, at the time, she had been terrified of the arrangement. Only the fact that it was with a friend had made it tolerable. “I went through with the wedding because I wanted to protect you. I was forced to have a baby when technically I was still a child myself. So I couldn’t stand by and watch the Senate force you to have a child of your own so young. The thought of watching that was worse than my own fear.”

“...Does Zeke know about all this?”

“Yes. He’s known for some time now.”

“You told _him_ before me?”

There was that stab in the chest again. His eyes looked like daggers lined with icy vestiges of tears. Her own gaze flinched, and now it was her turn to look away.

“I had to tell him, Niall. You’re old enough to know how these things work. On our wedding night, we were supposed to consummate the marriage and begin producing an heir for our countries. But when we tried to, the past came rushing back. I panicked, and I had to explain why. Please try to understand the position I was in.”

“...You _do_ love Zeke, though.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I do. I never expected to fall in love with him, but I did. It happened gradually, of course, but sometimes the best things to happen to us are the things we least expect, the things we never would have asked for.” She reached out and stroked his cheek. “You were one of those things, Niall. I didn't ask to be pregnant with you, but you became one of the best things that ever happened to me in all my life. I truly mean that.”

“And now Zeke and his baby make that list, too.” Niall brought a hand to her belly, brow set in an expression she couldn’t quite read. She watched his shaky, ungloved fingers, hardly believing how tiny those hands used to be. “Y-you were never this happy when you were pregnant with me, were you?”

Only once before had his voice sounded so hurt and vulnerable: the day Emperor Nealon died. At the time, Niall believed himself to be newly orphaned. He’d wept for days, questioning the injustice of losing his so-called father so young. Any child would grieve his father, but Morag knew he had wept more bitterly than most. After all, the Emperor’s death indirectly did to Niall what Pachnall’s abuse had done to her: it pulled away the last remnants of his woefully brief childhood. She would have given anything to restore those last few years of innocence herself. Morag’s gut ached terribly back then, and she’d considered telling him the truth--that she understood how it felt to grow up far too fast, what it felt like to fear being so alone in the world--that he wasn’t as alone as he thought. But she’d feared that telling him would only worsen his pain, and she kept silent, wallowing in her own sphere of guilt and grief and shame. That same ache hit her now. 

“Niall, that’s not fair. How can you ask me that?”

“You’re right. It isn’t fair. None of this is. If life had been _fair_ to you, I would never have been born. I wouldn’t exist.”

“Please don’t say that. What caused your birth doesn’t make your existence any less valid. Not to me.”

“But I’m a fraud. By all rights, you should have been Empress. Not me.”

“Your adoption might have been privileged information, but it was perfectly legitimate. So you have a legal right to the throne.”

“I don’t care about the legality of it, Morag. But to find out that your entire life has been a lie--do you have any idea how that feels?”

She shook her head. “No. But I do know how it feels to live a lie...Are you angry with me? If you are, I understand. You have a right to be.”

He stared out the window for a long moment. “I thought I would be angry. And I was at first. But now that I’ve thought it over...I’m not. Or at least I’m not completely angry. Damn it, I don’t even know how I feel. Maybe we should wait and finish this conversation when I’m less emotional, when I’m ready to talk about it without losing my temper. I don’t want to say something we’ll both regret,” he suggested weakly.

Her hand found his. “No,” she insisted. “I kept the truth from you for too long as it is. And now that we’ve finally begun this conversation, I’m _not_ going to walk away halfway through.”

He hugged his knees into his chest with one arm. With his free hand he twiddled with a stray yarn in the carpet, looking the most un-kingly he had in years. 

“I think I’m not angry simply because whenever I try to be angry, I feel guilty, too.”

“What? Why?”

“Because...when I look past the fact that you never told me, all I can see is the fact that you were always _there._ You didn’t abandon me. Anyone else in your position would have found a way to get rid of me. After all, you were so young. You were supposed to be Empress. A baby was a liability to your future. But you _kept_ me. In the process you gave up everything that should have been yours. And you’ve always been there for me, never asking for the recognition you deserved.

“In all my best memories, you’re there. There are all those times we would shake off the servants and swim at Gormott. My coronation ceremony, you attended, even though it should have been yours. You never missed a single birthday or holiday, no matter how busy your duties kept you. You took a second-rate position at Gormott while Moth--while Annabelle and I lived there just so you could be close to me. You gave up everything for me. You may not have acted as my mother, but you never left. How can I be angry at you for that?” He paused again. “I should be a reminder of all the injustice this world has thrown at you. But despite that you didn’t abandon me.”

“...The day you were born certainly changed my life,” Morag began. “You’re right. I wasn’t happy while I was pregnant with you. I was scared and ashamed, convinced that somehow it was my fault and that I’d failed the Empire. I wrongly believed that because I was abused, I was damaged. In my darkest moments I thought the world would be better off without me. But when I held you for the first time, all that changed. I still don’t understand how it happened, but I fell in love with you. I have always loved you, and I promise I always will.”

“I just wish you would have told me. That’s all.”

“I wanted you to have a good, happy life. I didn’t want you to be burdened by my own bad memories, too. It was my burden to bear, not yours.”

“I could have handled it, you know. Maybe not when I was very small, but...we could have worked through it. Together, like you said.”

She ran a finger through his hair. Without his crown, he looked his age for once. 

“Perhaps. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t decided if it was right or wrong for me not to tell you. But I _am_ sorry you found out the way you did. You should have heard it from me, not through his twisted version of it.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose. But I’m glad I know now. And I’m glad we’ve talked about it. Thank you for coming to see me...Mom.”

The maternal title sounded so foreign that Morag couldn’t help but laugh a little--partly from relief and partly from the sheer novelty of it. She wrapped her arms around him.

“My, that sounds odd. I’m not sure I’m ready to be called that.”

He smiled and returned her hug. “I know. But just this once, indulge me. And anyway, before too long, you’ll have a little one calling you that constantly.”

“Please don’t think that this baby will make me love you any less. I promise it doesn’t.”

“I know...When you first told me you were pregnant, my heart burst with happiness for you. Even before I knew about all this, I felt bad that you’d forced yourself into this arranged marriage. I always knew you did it for my sake. So when I saw the way your face glowed when you told me about the baby, I felt better. And now that I know about your past, I think I’m even happier for you. Because you deserve this happiness.”

That was not the reaction she’d expected. She didn’t know what she expected: anger, frustration, jealousy, typical teenage angst, even. And he had every right to such emotions after such an extensive alteration to his own personal identity. But here he was, forgiving her shortcomings _and_ wishing for her happiness, too. In the midst of his own hurt, he’d stopped to consider how the circumstances affected her.

It was his empathy that made him such a good ruler, she realized.

“Oh, Niall. You have a sweet, loving heart. Please never change,” she whispered, hugging him a little tighter.

After a long sigh, he finally pulled away. “So do you think it’s a girl or a boy?”

“I’m not sure. Brighid seemed to think it’s a girl. Pandoria says it’s a boy. I think Zeke is hoping for a girl.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s been suggesting baby names since the day I told him I was pregnant. Ninety percent of them are girl names...Speaking of names, what do you want us to have the baby call you? Uncle or sibling? I want you to have a say.”

Niall bit his lip. “...Uncle, for now. Only a few people know the truth about us as it is. Revealing that information might throw the Empire into chaos. So we’ll leave things as they are.”

“As things stand, I do think that is the wisest approach. Mor Ardain has had enough chaos as it is.”

“I _do_ believe that the Empire should have its rightful ruler, however.” He sighed heavily. “I still need to give it some thought, but I’m considering abdicating the throne when your child comes of age.”

“You don’t have to do that. No one else knows. And if any politicians ever found out, Zeke has offered to adopt you. That would make you a legal heir to the throne. Things don’t have to change.”

“I think it’s the right thing to do. And I’ve never really _liked_ being Emperor. I never could shake the feeling that I wasn’t meant to rule, after all. If I abdicated, the throne would return to its rightful owner. But let me take some time to mull it over. It’s not a decision we have to make right now, is it?”

“I suppose not. But no matter what you decide, I’ll support you.”

“You always have.” Niall leaned down so his head was practically in her lap. His voice fell to a whisper. “Hello there, little future Emperor or Empress. You have a very brave mother who’s going to take excellent care of you.”

He looked up, and his blue eyes met hers. “I should know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things here: Yes, I take some liberties with the whole Brighid injury/healing thing. But the canon is pretty vague about how much damage Blades can actually sustain before they bite the dust. And if you look really closely on some in-game footage, you can see what looks like a little crack in a dormant crystal. If that’s true, then it is possible for a core crystal to sustain small amounts of damage and repair itself. So I came up with this scenario based on that (and some creative license because hey, why not?)
> 
> I originally had just one more chapter planned, but...now I’m toying with the idea of doing one more chapter and then an epilogue. Both would be mostly fluffy (the primary conflict is over, after all). But man this fic has gotten long, too. I’m not sure it needs two more chapters. Somebody convince me one way or another.


	29. The Jewels of Mor Ardain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY getting around to updating. Slowest one yet, I think! Sorry it took longer than normal--someone broke into my car recently. Between losing some important stuff to theft and arguing with insurance, I wasn’t in the right headspace to write this fluffy stuff. But here we are!

“Lady Mòrag, which schematic seems best to you? The Gormotti in charge wants your approval before proceeding with any of the construction.”

Mòrag stared at the four different blueprints strewn out across the meeting table: all variations of the same plan to build a shared outpost along the new Gormotti-Ardainian border. With the new year come, transferring independence to the Gormotti was well underway. But like any government arrangement, it was proving time-consuming. Too many meetings. Too many discussions. Simply getting the Senate to agree to a mutually beneficial, amiable way to maintain the borders had proved difficult. Most argued for an arrangement that profited Mor Ardain far more, but the Emperor insisted on a method that would establish a precedent for fairness and respect to the newly-independent region of Gormott. Which left them here, approving plans for the least militaristic border outpost Mor Ardain had ever constructed.

Mòrag glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes past the scheduled end for the meeting. The consequence—the affair was now eating away at the single hour of free time on her agenda. 

_ “At two in the afternoon we’ll have an audience with the Imperial council, so we’ll need to take a quick lunch. Immediately following, General Baird wants you to speak to this year’s training corps. At 4.” _

Mòrag could almost hear Brighid reading through what remained of the daily agenda. How she missed that voice—and her ability to repair that schedule when an overtime meeting sent it into disarray. She hadn’t been to see Brighid yet today. This ought to be her one opening to visit, and yet...damn meetings. It was bad enough having to slip out several times to use the restroom more frequently.

Zeke must have noticed her checking the time, because he met her gaze from across the council table. “Go. I’ll finish things up here,” he whispered.

She nodded gratefully and excused herself; Zeke could handle the rest. When she got to Brighid’s room, everything was as she left it the afternoon before: the Blade still unconscious, a nurse nearby in case she woke up, flowers in a vase on the bedside table. The nurse muttered something about “no changes from yesterday, ma’am” followed by a simple “I’ll be back in an hour.” Mòrag simply nodded and sat in her customary place at Brighid’s bedside. 

Her afternoons at Brighid’s bedside had become something of an escape. After all, with nothing more than a single needle and tube feeding liquidized ether into the Blade’s circulatory system, she looked almost like her old self. Even the damage to the core crystal had repaired itself, leaving behind the familiar tongue of crystal blue flame. If Mòrag ignored the one needle, she could fool herself into thinking that the Blade was merely asleep...almost. Regardless, she felt at ease here. Or at least as calm as she could be without her constant companion. 

“You missed a really extravagant party,” Mòrag commented at last. “I can hardly believe Niall’s fifteen already. Next year it’ll be his coming-of-age ceremony instead. I...I wish you had been there, Brighid. I didn’t know what to wear, and my dress uniform doesn’t fit anymore. And I’m not about to let Pandoria choose my outfits, either.”

She went on aimlessly describing the evening: notable people in attendance, the gifts brought to the Emperor, even the unexpected challenges of dancing while pregnant. The press had a field day verbally rehearsing the entire roster of young women who’d danced with Niall. Not one reporter had missed the names and backstories of those who earned more than one dance. Then there was the baby shower the others were planning for her next month, which Pandoria was spearheading, leaving Mòrag to wonder exactly what that party would entail. And, of course, Zeke insisted they take a miniature vacation for their anniversary—as one last chance to get away before the baby arrived.

“There are so many good things happening, Brighid. You need to be here for them,” Mòrag urged. 

She made that statement every day, like a closing salutation before heading back to work. But nothing ever seemed to change. Brighid never seemed to respond. Her chest rose and fell as it always did, light gleaming off her core crystal every time it caught the sun streaming through the window. If only she could wake the Blade somehow—like resonance, but this time to bring Brighid into consciousness, not into being. For no particular reason, Mòrag reached out and touched the Blade’s core crystal. It tingled beneath her fingers. What happened next she could hardly explain; it ran counter to everything everyone knew about Blade physiology. 

The familiar pull grabbed at Mòrag’s chest, like something had lodged a large fishing hook in her heart. The unseen force tugged on her, aching and burning and freezing and soothing all at once. Her fingers never left Brighid’s core; she couldn’t have pulled away even if she wanted to. Not that she did. Instinct told her that this moment—anomaly though it might be—this moment mattered. So she pressed her fingers firmly into the core, letting the ether course through her. It felt like standing atop the water slides at Fonsa Myma’s gardens: trying to stand firm against the current, always on the brink of being washed away. 

Then all at once, the sensation ended. Brighid stirred.

For a moment, Mòrag simply stared at the Blade, who stared right back. It seemed too good to be true. Too implausible after all the time she’d been unconscious. 

“You’re finally awake. Architect, I’ve been so worried,” Mòrag said at last, her hand still hovering stupidly above the Blade. 

“Wh-what happened? Where are we?” 

Brighid sat up abruptly, only to be rewarded with a wave of dizziness for her sudden movements. Mòrag propped pillows behind the other woman. Then she collapsed back into her chair. She grinned in relief, her hands falling to their new customary position across the top of her belly. There was so much to say. But where to begin? How much had Brighid even heard from her bedside ramblings? Best to start with the basics.

“We’re home, Brighid. Thanks to you, we all made it back safely. We owe you a debt of eternal gratitude.”

Brighid massaged her temples, as if the motion might somehow stimulate her brain to make sense of it all. “I-I can’t seem to remember anything after jumping out of the airship with...him. Is...is he dead?”

Mòrag nodded. “We all saw Ciaran return to his core crystal. And, well, I saw his body. I decided to leave him to the feris. What was left of him, at least. I suspect he was dead even before he hit the ground.”

“...The day he escaped, I swore I’d burn him alive. At least I managed that much,” Brighid muttered. “I take it you were the one who came to find me, then?”

“Of course. He damaged your core crystal somehow. I suspect you were on the verge of returning to your core when I found you. But thanks to Mythra and Nia, all of your wounds healed. It took some time, though.”

“You should have left me to die.”

Mòrag paused. Perhaps Brighid was fixated on the last thing her Driver had said to her:  _ she’s made it quite clear that she doesn’t deserve my trust.  _ Such a betraying statement from a friend would leave anyone reeling. Knowing Brighid’s tendency to analyze every stray word or phrase, Mòrag realized that she must have mentally rehearsed that entire conversation over and over. Architect, she’d probably written the whole thing down. 

“This is about what I said. Isn’t it?” Mòrag said at last. Not for the last time did she scold herself for losing her temper.

Brighid wrung her hands. “No. It’s about what _ I _ didn’t say. I failed you, Lady Mòrag. You were right to be angry with me. I don’t deserve your trust. And after such a terrible failure, I’m not sure how I can ever be worthy of it again. I-I had hoped that killing him would at least help repay my debt, to assuage my guilt. But it hasn’t.”

Guilt. On that much, they could agree.

Mòrag rolled up one of her sleeves and held up her forearm for Brighid to see. She traced one of the scars with her fingers. “Do you remember when you gave me these?”

“Yet another way I failed you. If I had protected you, you would have never been driven to such an act of desperation,” Brighid said bitterly.

“And if  _ I _ hadn’t lost my temper and tried to banish you, you would not have felt desperate enough to throw yourself out of an airship,” Mòrag countered. “I-I realize now how it must have felt for you all those years ago, to wait by my bedside, praying and hoping that I would wake up. Because that’s how I’ve felt all this time. Even before we met Klaus, I never considered myself much of a praying woman. But since we carried you in here, I’ve prayed over and over that you’d wake up...Do you really not want to live on Elysium anymore? Brighid, what about me? I’m not better off without you.”

The Blade’s gaze fell as Mòrag’s last words registered in her mind. She recognized them. After all, she had said the same thing to her Driver when she woke from her own desperate act. 

“You shouldn’t be able to forgive me for what I did.”

“That’s not true. I can  _ choose  _ to forgive you, Brighid. And I am. But I’d have to beg your forgiveness, too. By all rights, you shouldn’t be able to forgive me for what I said. Let’s face it. We both wronged each other.”

“Of course I forgive you. But after everything I did—I’m sorry.” 

“All is forgiven, Brighid. I mean it. I was a fool to push you away. I’m nothing without my Jewel...If I recall correctly, this is the first time you and I have ever fought. Considering the fact that we’ve been together for seventeen years, I daresay that’s impressive. And when we did finally fight, we made a royal combustion out of it.”

A wry, half-hearted smile formed on the Blade’s face. “What a pair we make.” 

At last, the tension in the room dissipated, as if Brighid’s stress had been manipulating the ether flow, constricting it. Driver and Blade sighed in perfect unison. Mòrag finally did what she’d been hoping to do for months: wrap her arms around her Blade and soak in the Jewel’s warmth. Over time, today’s mistakes would seem less painful. As long as they were together. What a comforting thought.

“Lady Mòrag, if I may, since when are you so touchy-feely? You used to hate hugs,” Brighid said, laughing.

Mòrag withdrew from the embrace, certain that her expression matched her Blade’s. Brighid’s laugh—how she’d missed it. “They’re growing on me, I suppose.”

All at once, Brighid’s smile faded. “Mòrag, your—”

Her eyes widened, bold purple and no longer glazed over with the last vestiges of her coma. Mòrag followed her gaze and discovered that Brighid’s eyes had settled resolutely on her abdomen. Her eyelids remained open in unwavering surprise.

Oh. That. Brighid would need an extensive briefing to be caught up on everything she’d missed. That covered a lot of things, uniform changes included. Mòrag ran a hand over her knit blouse. Brighid would have  _ loved  _ the chance to buy her maternity wardrobe, she realized. Maybe tomorrow she could rearrange her Inquisitorial duties to head into the shopping district with her Blade. They could use some time together. And letting Brighid add one outfit to her collection wouldn’t hurt. Brighid would certainly jump at the opportunity.

“Ah. I suppose it  _ is  _ a bit bigger than the last time you saw it.”

“A  _ bit _ bigger? Mòrag, when I last saw you, you were just barely starting to show. Now you’re quite visibly pregnant...J-just how long have I been asleep?”

“Tomorrow would have marked thirteen weeks.”

“...Thirteen weeks? Thirteen? Surely you jest. That can’t be.”

“It’s the truth. I daresay the baby’s growth is proof, is it not?”

“I certainly can’t argue when the evidence is so irrefutable now, can I?” Brighid shook her head, as if the gesture might help the pieces click together in her brain. “Please tell me you’ve had a healthy pregnancy this time.”

Mòrag felt a little foot or elbow jab at her side for what must have been the hundredth time that morning. She rubbed at the spot, prompting more little kicks. It was becoming a little game of sorts—at her touch, the baby would kick even more. Like his or her father, the child seemed incapable of sitting still. More than once during a routine checkup, Amelia had commented on the “internal tapdance” happening beneath the surface—usually something to the effect of, “If the kid’s this antsy now, imagine how much of a handful you’ll have at the  _ end  _ of your pregnancy.” Meanwhile, Zeke himself had been overtly dramatic when he first felt a kick, even dragging over Rex and Pyra (who were visiting at the time) to, despite his wife’s glare, “check out the kid I made! Strong already!”

Between Amelia’s proactive medical advice and Zeke’s tendency to smother her with attention, the pregnancy had been calmer than the Cloud Sea (although at times a bit annoying). The difference between then and now...it was night and day, really. 

“It’s been perfect. I feel wonderful.”

“Is it a boy or girl? The palace has the technology to find out, right?”

“We decided not to ask. It’ll be a surprise for all of us. I-I’m so glad you woke up in time, Brighid. I want you there when the baby comes.”

She hesitated. Should she tell Brighid Zeke’s idea? It would certainly cheer her up and help her know that she’d truly been forgiven—that their grievances were completely forgotten. But no. It was still too soon. And then Brighid might be disappointed if the baby turned out to be a boy. The idea certainly only fit a girl. And Zeke seemed oddly protective of the potential names they’d chosen; apparently he hadn’t even told Pandoria. 

“If you truly want me there, then I’d be honored.”

Mòrag slipped her hand back into Brighid’s. “I always want you by my side, Brighid. No matter what.”

“Roger that, Lady Mòrag.”

* * *

If there was one thing about Zeke that Mòrag envied, it was his uncanny ability to sleep through...well, anything. In her moodier moments, she hoped that fatherhood would lighten his sleep a tad. Because of now of all times was not the moment she wanted him to dream his way through every sound. 

“Zeke,” she called again, shaking him a bit harder. “Zeke!”

He finally stirred and rolled over. Even without lamplight, she could see the scowl on his brow. It didn’t disappear as he rubbed his eyes. 

“What are you craving this time?” he groaned. “I swear, if you ask for more snowbaby potato salad, I’m going to lose my mind. The shipment is supposed to arrive tomorrow. And I am not traveling to Leftheria to get any beforehand.”

Mòrag scowled in return. As appetizing as the starchy food sounded, that was the exact opposite reason she’d woken him. And he made it sound so _inconvenient._ Although, come to think of it, he had trekked to Leftheria a couple times for her when the cravings first hit. He’d been putting on his boots for the third such trip when Pandoria asked the obvious question: “why not just ship the stuff in?” He doted on her—overbearingly so at times—throughout the entire pregnancy. No wonder he was getting a bit impatient, especially in the middle of the night. Poor man had probably been counting down the days to their due date. 

“Anything but potato salad, I’ll get. Embercakes. Rainbow Parfait. Quoteletta. Anything, just not the damn potato salad. Now what do you want?”

“You’ll be relieved to know that this isn’t about cravings, actually. In fact, I think after tonight the cravings will be over.”

“Good,” he retorted, jamming his face back into the pillow. “Now unless you actually need something, please go back to sleep.”

She paused—both waiting for the pain to subside again and waiting for her statement to click in his brain. He shot back up as quickly as he’d plopped down.

“Wait. What do you mean, the cravings will be over? Mòrag, why’d you wake me up?”

“I-I woke you because I need you to go get Amelia.”

She could tell the precise moment her statement registered; his normally dramatic movements became fidgety, and his volume rose. His composure, on the other hand, dropped.

“The b-baby’s coming? It’s time?”

“Yes. And now the contractions are close enough together that it’s time to get her.” She leaned over and turned the lamp on as she spoke. 

He jumped out of bed and went through the motions of putting on a shirt—only to realize he pulled the pillowcase off his pillow and attempted to wear it. He grinned sheepishly and found his real garment. Mòrag failed to stifle a laugh. So much for all those conversations with Amelia about what to expect (and how to react calmly) when this moment came. By some small miracle, he managed to notice that his pants were backwards before he actually put them on.

“Now what am I doing again?” he asked once dressed—although Mòrag decided not to tell him he was still barefoot. 

“Go get Amelia.”

“And tell her…?”

“That I’m in labor, Boltbrain. And if she asks, tell her that the contractions are about five minutes—” the pain and dizzying pressure cut her off. Zeke was back at her side in an instant, panicking. She waved him off. If he was like this now, he’d be no help during hard labor. “Oof, make that four and a half minutes apart. Get her, please.” 

Mòrag half expected him to scold her for not waking him sooner. But he merely nodded, repeating his task to himself over and over again as he left the room. In between contractions, Mòrag took advantage of his absence to do the tasks he would have insisted on doing himself: turning on the room lights, getting a glass of water, fetching something to tie back her hair with, changing into something a bit more comfortable, and propping up pillows for herself. Amelia would probably have a fit if she spotted her patient up and about—especially if she had caught her pulling a chair over to the bedside, too. 

How nice it would be to do things for herself again. The past month, people had insisted on carrying things for her, getting objects off shelves, and so many other menial tasks. The lack of self-sufficiency was driving her mad; she’d taken to sneaking in little tasks like moving books from her desk when no one was around just for the sensation of doing something for herself.

Before anyone could return, she eased herself back into bed and took several long, cleansing breaths. The entire pregnancy, dozens of women had pestered her with unsolicited advice about labor, delivery, and navigating life with a newborn. Some had even warned her—ironically—that the first labor was painful, the second much easier. Oh, if they only knew. But they were right, in part: the second was easier. And not just physically, either. Emotionally, too. As annoying as the unwanted advice was, Mòrag found herself enjoying each ridiculous tidbit of so-called wisdom. It was freeing, somehow. 

“I’m excited to meet you, little Flamebolt,” she whispered. “And to see your little feet instead of feeling them.”

“Of all the habits you had to pick up from Zeke in a year of marriage, you had to pick up his propensity to nickname things.”

“Brighid! Just how long have you been there?”

Brighid simply smiled. “I won’t tell Amelia you were up and about.”

Of course Brighid had been the first to arrive. “How’d you know? Did Zeke go to your room by mistake? He’s a wreck.”

“I felt it through the ether. But even if I hadn’t, I would have guessed by the noise he’s making in the halls. I believe it’s safe to assume that half the palace knows by now.”

Mòrag simply shook her head and laughed. By the time Zeke finally did return, half the palace  _ did  _ know. But they kept a respectful distance, eager for their insider-access news. Doubtless one of the staff would leak the information to the press within an hour of the baby’s arrival. Not that it mattered, really. 

“Alright, Flames! Let’s get this birthday party started. I mean, let’s meet our—are you ready to—”

“Oi, daddy-to-be! Shut it! Quit making such a racket and go sit with your wife. I know it’s your first time, but you’re about to make a bloody fool of yourself.”

“Why is it that every healer we know likes to sass me?” Zeke asked the other women around him. But he did as he was told. 

Later on, Amelia would describe the labor and delivery as, “Perfectly textbook for the mother and baby. The husband and father? Not so much.” The reason: Zeke managed to pass out not once, but twice during the whole affair. Thanks to a friendly wake-up zap from Pandoria (who showed up halfway through), he was able to return to consciousness in time for the babe’s arrival. 

Mòrag had always thought that Niall’s first cry was loud and strong. But this child’s first dwarfed his many times over, as if the babe were trying to shake the room to match the Zekenator’s ability to make a dramatic entrance.  _ There goes any hope of a good night’s rest anytime soon,  _ she thought. And yet she didn’t care—that obnoxious little voice was  _ theirs.  _ And boy or girl, she didn’t care. There was no throne at stake. There never had been. Just the ever-growing sphere of love that no one quite ever managed to put into words properly. 

“It’s a girl!” Amelia shouted over the baby’s cries. “Mor Ardain has itself a new princess.”

Zeke punched the air in excitement, then grinned sheepishly when the room gave him a questioning glance. “What? I was hoping for a girl.”

“All right, princess. Let’s go meet your mommy.”

Brighid had never managed to adequately describe the moment when Mòrag first held Niall. No words quite fit that mix of emotions: the fear, the relief, the wonder, and the regret all rolled up into a beautifully complicated first meeting. This first touch, however, had none of the negative connotations. And yet Brighid couldn’t describe it, either.  _ The most at peace I’ve ever seen her.  _ That was the best description the Blade ever managed to write. 

“Oh, look at you,” Mòrag whispered—the infant had finally settled into a series of contented whimpers instead of her ear-splitting cry. She traced a finger over the baby’s cheek, marveling at the bright eyes staring back up at her. “Such a pretty little girl, aren’t you?”

A sniffle beside her prompted her to look over at Zeke. He’d moved to sit beside her on the bed the moment Amelia handed the newborn off, but not a word had come from his mouth. A little tear spoke for him instead. Without warning, Mòrag slipped the baby into his arms—there were still a few post-delivery details to account for, after all—and the only response Zeke made was a loud, stunned exhale. A second tear joined the first. 

Pandoria broke the awed quiet that had filled the room. “Well dad, whatcha think?”

His gaze never left the infant in his hands. “Wow. Wow. Wow.”

Brighid grinned. “For once, the Zekenator’s speechless.”

Zeke kissed his daughter’s head, his lips brushing against a tuft of silvery hair. A moment later, his satisfied little smile faded, replaced by a scowl.

“What’s wrong?” Mòrag asked.

“I think she just peed on me.”

The room erupted in laughter. Fatherhood, it seemed, did not erase Zeke’s bad luck. Mòrag didn’t have the heart to tell him it would probably happen dozens of times along the way. As would other messes. But that could come later. For now, she relished watching his innocent tenderness. Just how many times had he shown the same tenderness to her? Inexperienced with babies or not, he was genuine. Kind. Loyal. A bit protective. More nurturing than he let on. And that was all a good father needed. 

“All right Mòrag, you get to teach Zeke how to put a diaper on that little Flamebolt. Good luck with that.” Pandoria smirked.

“Oi! You’re probably gonna change a diaper or two along the way, you know.”

“So have you two decided on a name yet?” Brighid interjected. “Or are you going to call her Flamebolt indefinitely?”

Mòrag looked to Zeke, questioning. “Go on. Tell her,” he urged.

“Are you sure?”

“It was my idea, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t want Pandoria to feel left—”

“I think it’s perfect, Mòrag,” Pandoria interjected, grinning. “Don’t worry about me.”

Good. Zeke had talked it over with his Blade after all. As long as there were no hard feelings, then…

“Come hold her, Brighid.”

If the baby was bothered by the heat of the fire Blade’s hands, she didn’t show it. She simply stretched into a new, comfortable position and stared at the unfamiliar face above her. Perhaps her heritage gave her some built-in heat tolerance. Brighid glanced back and forth between her Driver and the child in her arms; judging by her expression, she could tell something was afoot.

Of course she suspected. They weren’t exactly being subtle about this. It wasn’t a subtle name, either. Quite frankly, it was rather “on the nose.” Mòrag had said as much when Zeke first suggested it. But it grew on her, especially when the baby began kicking in force. A spunky name for a spunky baby. And without Brighid, this baby wouldn’t be here. None of them would, really. Deep down, Mòrag knew she could spend her entire life trying to properly thank Brighid and never come close. This was just a tiny little gesture in the grand scheme of things.

Mòrag slipped her hand into Zeke’s; he returned the motion with an encouraging little squeeze. “Nothing about our relationship has been traditional,” she began. “Certainly not how we got married and fell in love. Or how quickly this little one came along. So we’ve decided to go with an untraditional name. But we also agreed that it was only fitting that we name her after someone worthy. Someone brave, heroic, wise, fiercely loyal. Someone who we’d be proud to see her emulate...Brighid, with your permission, we’d like to name her Jewel.”

A disbelieving gasp was the only response the Blade could muster at first. “...I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Please say yes. Because it’s the only girl’s name we actually  _ agreed  _ on. Our fallback is Konstantina,” Zeke added.

Mòrag, Brighid, and Pandoria all scowled in perfect unison.

“Come off it,” Pandoria retorted. “That’s  _ your _ fallback. Mòrag probably had something more sensible in mind than Konstantina. I’m telling you, that’s too many syllables. Poor kid wouldn’t be able to say her name until she turned six!”

“Konstantina was my grandmother’s name, I’ll have you know.”

“So you proposed an old lady’s name for your kid. Good going.”

“Well, Brighid?”

The Blade looked down at her proposed namesake, studying her shaky, uncontrolled movements. Tiny hands jerked open and shut, as if the infant were still exploring her new roomier environment. One of her little fists clenched around a strand of Brighid’s hair, unperturbed by the warmth. The Blade smiled. 

“Well, then,” she whispered, disentangling the lock from the girl’s fingers. “Nice to meet you, Jewel.”

* * *

Armed with a name, gender, and time of birth, the busybodies on staff at Hardhaigh Palace made quick work with the news. And so began a long string of visitors and well-wishers—all of whom Mòrag was too polite to shoo away. To Zeke’s own surprise, their first out-of-town guest was his father; apparently a grandchild was the only thing that prompted spontaneity in Tantal’s king. Niall stole away from his imperial duties whenever he could. And of course, Rex, Pyra, Nia, Tora, and all their other companions trickled in for visits. 

Despite the fact that Brighid and Pandoria had volunteered to handle their Drivers’ duties for several weeks, the new parents found themselves busier than ever; visits from friends and family and Jewel’s erratic sleep schedule never seemed to sync perfectly. More often than not, visits were dramatically shortened or lengthened thanks to a hungry or cranky baby. Only when Brighid created a formal, strict schedule for visits did things calm down a bit. 

“Normally, I’d complain about Brighid being really uptight with that dumb agenda of hers. But she’s a miracle worker keeping people at bay,” Zeke commented. “I swear, this is the first time we’ve been alone since she was born.”

“That’s an exaggeration. We’ve had time to ourselves every night.”

“Yeah. And all we’ve done is fall asleep or feed the little milk processor. Or change her diaper.”

“She’ll get on a schedule eventually,” Mòrag pointed out, shifting Jewel into a more comfortable position. Unlike Niall, Jewel was a voracious little eater. It was hard to keep up with the demands of her stomach. Especially running on fumes as they were. “And you’re getting better with the diapers.”

He smirked. “At least she hasn’t peed on me again. Come here.”

Before Mòrag could protest or even warn him not to disrupt the baby’s current meal, he pulled her into his lap. Jewel continued suckling, unperturbed by the slight shift in positioning. Mòrag relaxed against his chest and willed herself not to fall asleep. How long had it been since they’d even cuddled without konking out from exhaustion? Hiding in Gormott had been emotionally difficult, but without interruptions from overeager visitors, getting Niall on a feeding and sleeping schedule had been relatively simple. Jewel? Far from it. Military maternity leave gave her just six weeks to settle into life with a newborn, and three of them had already ticked past. As things were, she dreaded going back to work. She couldn’t just break protocol simply because she had the authority to. Somehow they would have to find an adequate way to balance the rigors of work and quality time as a family. That much was non-negotiable. Considering how many key moments she’d been forced to miss with Niall, she was not about to miss out on being Jewel’s mother. 

Too many imperial and royal children over the years had been raised by governesses or only one involved parent. She and Zeke vowed not to let that happen. But would it prove easier said than done? 

“What’s on your mind?” she asked. Judging by how still he was—with his chin resting against her shoulder and one arm wrapped around her waist—he was just watching the baby eat. In quieter moments like this, he had a tendency to simply sit and stare, enraptured.

“I don’t want ten anymore,” he replied quietly. 

Mòrag couldn’t stop herself from giving one relieved exhale. She suspected he’d change his tune on that front eventually, but hearing him say it was another matter. “Children are a lot of work, especially when they’re this tiny.”

“Well yeah, but that’s not what I meant.” He ran his fingers over Jewel’s sparse tufts of hair. “I just, well, whenever I look at her, my heart feels like it’s gonna burst. This beautiful little bundle of life and innocence—we made this. She’s ours, and I’ve never felt so lucky. This feeling...I don’t think I could handle it ten times over. I’d explode.”

She nuzzled a little deeper into his chest. Zeke insisted that he wasn’t the most well-spoken or romantic man. But at times like this, he could be so eloquent that she wondered why she’d taken so long to give him a second look. Would she have ever even considered him if fate hadn’t forced her into a political marriage? No. That much she knew for certain. How remarkable it all was—that a scenario that had seemed so terrifying at the time had evolved into such solace—that her nightmares disappeared and became dreams she’d never even dared to hope for. Wishes she never realized she had.

“It’s amazing how something so small can instill such a sense of purpose,” Mòrag said.

She felt him nod. “That reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask. A while ago, when we defeated Malos, you said you were a little envious of him because he’d found the meaning to his life. At the time, I was baffled why someone as strong and influential as yourself would have her doubts about her purpose. But I came to understand once we tied the knot. So that meaning to your life—have you found it yet?”

She paused. So much of her life she’d faced criticism or even pity for her role. Pity after Niall’s birth because she’d been raised to take the throne, only to lose her identity as heiress two years before she came of age. Even further sympathy from those who knew or suspected why she’d lived in Gormott for so long. Criticism for her choice to live as a warrior, to lead in a military position historically held by men. Cruel glares and sideways glances from the traditionalists who insisted her only remaining job as a non-ruling member of the royal bloodline was to produce children. And of course, the cutting voice inside her head that had screamed over and over for more than a decade: worthless, liar, fraud, unlovable. For years, she’d always ignored the external critics, only going along with what society expected of her when it directly benefited Niall. Niall, whose birth had burned away the destiny Mor Ardain demanded she fulfill. 

Yet somehow, she found beauty in all the ashes. 

“People used to tell me that a crown princess lost her purpose when a prince was born. And for a while, I believed them. But now...I think one’s purpose isn’t something that’s dictated for them. The meaning to our lives—we create it together, one choice at a time.”

“So are you happy with the meaning you’ve made for yourself?” 

Jewel gave a satisfied little sigh, her little tongue slipping into lazy little tickles as she drifted off into a milk coma. That feeling Zeke had of nearly bursting inside—she had it too, she realized. It didn’t seem like much, but if  _ together _ they could do right by this little girl...then that was enough.

She smiled. “I believe I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one little epilogue left to go--completely fluffy. I’ll leave a longer note when I close that one out.


	30. Epilogue: Inheritance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and sweet little epilogue to close us out.

“Jewel, you’re not supposed to be up here.”

The girl stopped short and clasped her hands behind her back, as if she hoped she could hide the fact that she was caught in the act.

“How’d you know I was here?” she sulked. Her blue eyes gleamed with surprise. “My plan was perfect this time. I strategized and everything!”

Mòrag crossed her arms—not an impatient position, but rather a gentle visual reminder that the girl had technically broken the rules set for her. But then she smiled. Jewel  _ had  _ almost gotten away with it. That took some doing; even during tonight’s festivities, the vaults were well-guarded.

“You must be paying good attention in your tactics lessons,” Mòrag pointed out, choosing to forgo a lecture. Perhaps the evening had her in a forgiving mood. “Because you did have a decent plan. Waiting until everyone was distracted with the party was the best opportunity you had to get in here without the guards spotting you. Even I didn’t see you sneak off. But you forgot one of the basic rules of tactics. What do you think it was?”

Jewel bit her lip and twirled a strand of silver hair around her fingers. “Bring backup?”

Mòrag shook her head. “When you’re infiltrating a restricted area, always have an escape plan. That way, if you’re detected, you can get out before you actually get caught or attacked. Now, hand it over.” 

She extended a hand, thankful she caught Jewel before she had the chance to take her gloves off. Reluctantly, the girl surrendered her contraband; the core crystal glimmered in the dim light. Finding the canister she swiped it from was easy enough. Mòrag replaced the crystal in its case and returned it to the shelf beside the other lance Blades in the palace’s collection. A poor choice, really. Jewel must have hastily grabbed the first one she could reach. Until now, the entirety of her training revolved around sword variants; wielding a lance would have upended her entire combat education thus far. When the time came, a chroma katana would suit her far better. And one day—hopefully far in the future—so would her namesake’s whipswords. 

With the crystal stored again, Mòrag beckoned her daughter away from the vault of core crystals. With a heavy sigh and heavier footsteps, Jewel stepped into the hall.

“So who gave me away, anyway? I made sure everyone was distracted. I even waited until the second round of champagne was served. Nobody should have seen me.”

“You forget, my dear, that you were named after a very keen Blade who likes to keep an eye on you.”

Jewel rolled her eyes. “Spoilsport Brighid. Always hovering and never letting me do anything. And you and Dad wonder why I like Aunt Pandy better. She at least lets me get away with stuff.”

“If you didn’t sneak away so frequently, Brighid wouldn’t have to hover quite so much,” Mòrag replied with a playful elbow jab. 

“I know, I know. I just really want to be a Driver, Mum.”

The look in Jewel’s eyes was passionate and determined—so much like Mòrag’s own when she’d first vowed to become a Driver herself. Jewel’s appearance certainly resembled her father’s, but she earned her stubborn streak from her mother. 

“The desire to be a Driver is a good thing. And you come by it honestly. But you know the rules: not until you turn sixteen.”

“But that’s  _ four years _ away! And you resonated at twelve. So did Uncle Niall. Why can’t I? How’s that fair?”

Mòrag shut the door to the vault and locked it behind them. Jewel could have her pick of any of the core crystals inside it—but not now. Today, she was innocent and determined, and her parents intended to keep it that way. 

“It’s not meant to be fair, dear. Your father and I agreed a long time ago that you could take a Blade when you come of age. Do you know why that is?”

Jewel crossed her arms and huffed loudly. “Because you think I’m a wimp who can’t handle it,” she muttered.

“Ha! Quite the opposite, actually,” Mòrag laughed. “You’re the daughter of the two strongest drivers Mor Ardain and Tantal have to offer. You’re going to be a force of nature; I have no doubt about that.”

“Then why not let me prove myself now?”

“You’re only a child for so long, my little spark plug. Your father and I want you to enjoy it while you can.”

“Lots of children become Drivers.”

“Being a Driver is a lot of responsibility. And it isn’t easy,” Mòrag sighed, recalling the bittersweet years that had followed her own first resonance. Jewel was clueless about all of it. Blissfully, childishly ignorant. But she was growing up. Before long, womanhood would come knocking (and the dreaded hormones of adolescence that would probably turn their spunky daughter into a troublesome teenager). After that would come her role as Empress; Niall still intended to abdicate his throne not long after the girl came of age. Eventually, she would have to know the truth. And she would need a Blade at her side. But not quite yet.

“Shortly after I resonated with Brighid, I started getting nightmares. And they’ve never fully gone away,” Mòrag admitted. Talking about it still ached. But that pain was duller now, more manageable. 

“Drivers get bad dreams?” Jewel’s voice rang with confused disbelief.

“No. What I mean to say is...Listen, Jewel, when I became a Driver, I had to face a lot of terrifying monsters far sooner than I should have. There were monsters around me and monsters inside my head. Someday, I’ll tell you about them: when they arrived, how they almost defeated me, how I overcame them, and how your father, your uncle, and Brighid all helped me realize that I don’t have to be scared of them anymore.”

“What do you mean, monsters? Like the Tyrannotitan Kurodil you and Dad fought with Uncle Rex?”

Mòrag shook her head. Despite nearing adolescence, that remained Jewel’s favorite story. Zeke always told it better, with all the theatrics that made it memorable. “Not that sort of monster. Everyone’s monster is a little different. And I hope you never have to face mine.”

“I don’t understand, Mum.”

“I’ll explain it to you one day. But in the meantime, I want you to keep growing into the wisest, kindest, and bravest princess you can be.”

“ ‘Kay.”

“Now, let’s get back to the party. Your uncle still wants to dance with you, remember?”

Jewel frowned—the same pouty face Zeke made when he didn’t get his way. “I was hoping he’d forget about that.”

“You’re a better dancer than you give yourself credit for. And trust me, Niall’s an excellent dancer. Just follow his lead, and you’ll be fine.”

Jewel nodded and trotted off, winding through the palace halls with native ease. Mòrag followed at a slower pace—just quickly enough to ensure Jewel actually returned to the party as instructed, but slow enough to savor the last few moments of quiet. The revelry hummed through the corridors as they approached. Then the dim warmth of the unpopulated hallway exploded in a burst of light and sound the moment she entered the ballroom. 

Nostalgia washed over Mòrag as she hesitated inside the doorway. The great hall looked nearly identical to her own wedding reception—the Ardainian colors draped everywhere, brilliant lights that made the champagne glasses sparkle, a chorus of laughter and jubilant music, and a dazzling mass of colorful silks and satins from the dance floor. How had it been over thirteen years already? 

There was, of course, one very obvious difference: the couple this party intended to celebrate. And since it was Niall’s celebration, the extravagance was multiplied tenfold. And this party lacked any of the apprehension of her own, too. She and Zeke had put on an act for their guests—a performance with the tiniest shred of genuity. But this was no arranged marriage. Niall had followed his heart, and it had led him back to Lady Maeve. She’d been his first crush, and no matter how many other women he courted (an admittedly short list), she never left his mind. But true to himself, Niall had taken a very long time to propose, focusing his efforts on his country first and foremost. It took a very out of character “get on with it” from Aegaeon—of  _ all people _ —to convince the Emperor to finally attend to his own happiness.

Happiness didn’t quite do it justice, Mòrag decided. Bliss better described the expression on Niall’s face today. Even as the Emperor invited Jewel to dance, his smile did not fade. If anything, it grew bigger. The Ardainian Inquisitor couldn’t fight back a grin of her own. The Emperor and future Empress hand in hand, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers in an Elysium that was finally peaceful. No looming wars. No more mutinous Senators. No Aramach. Just an optimistic outlook for the future. 

In the end, it had all been worth it. 

“I’m not sure the mother of the groom should be a wallflower, you know.” Zeke’s voice pulled her from her quiet reverie.

She hummed in agreement. She’d rejoin the festivities eventually. “What happened to you and Pandoria showing off your dances all night?”

He smirked. “When you disappeared, Pandy volunteered to take Addam to bed. Poor little tyke was exhausted.”

“It  _ is  _ past his bedtime. I should go say goodnight to him.”

“Don’t bother. He was already asleep. No joke—he passed out in the corner. Even with all this noise.”

“He  _ does  _ take after your ability to sleep through anything.” She laughed at the mental image of their boy curled up like a cat in a chair. Weddings were demanding days for eight-year-olds—even for a boy who preferred to watch his sister cause trouble than make his own. 

“And like me, he can sleep anywhere,” Zeke added. “So what mischief did Jewel get herself into this time?”

“She nearly added another Blade to the family.”

“Again? Architect, she’s tenacious. We’re going to have our hands full when she’s a teenager.”

Mòrag shook her head. “Please don’t say  _ teenager.  _ This wedding is already making me feel old enough as it is.”

“Old? Don’t talk about my wife that way. You’re not allowed to call yourself old until your hair matches mine.”

A few strands had already gone silver; lots more probably would turn simply from the stress of helping Jewel navigate puberty. But even so, growing old with him didn’t sound so bad anymore. Not when the old voices were all but buried. 

Mòrag returned her attention to the younger pair of dancing royals. As she predicted, Jewel had settled into the dancing perfectly thanks to Niall’s lead. In fact, when the first song ended, the girl begged for another dance. Thankfully, Maeve didn’t seem to mind that her new husband had been stolen by his so-called niece. If anything, she found it charming. 

One day, Jewel would learn the truth about the man she danced with. The crown atop his head would become hers, and she would learn to rule with the same grace and wisdom. But more importantly, she’d learn the complicated history of her own birthright. Like the crown, the story would be too heavy for her now. Someday, though, Mòrag hoped that the truth would make her a better ruler. It would teach her a lesson her tutors would never give: that even broken things could be mended. That love—both filial and romantic—could bring hope to the hopeless. That the darkest tunnels had lights at the end of them. 

That beauty—even jewels—could be made from ashes.

“...If given the chance, would you do it all over again?” Mòrag asked suddenly. 

“In a heartbeat,” he replied, not missing a beat despite her out-of-the-blue inquiry. “What about you? Would you change anything?”

How easily that answer came now. “Not a thing.”

The atmosphere of the crowd changed again; the royal symphony swelled into a bright waltz. More dancers congregated on the floor, stirred by the upbeat rhythms after the slower set.

Zeke grinned, recognizing the melody. “Your favorite song. It was the first one we ever danced to, you know. At the party that started it all. It’d be a shame not to dance to it now.”

She smiled and slipped her arm into his. The crowd parted to let them pass, and together they melted into the sea of ever-shifting colors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I can’t believe it. Inheritance is finally complete. When I first started writing this story on a whim last summer, I had no idea that it would turn into one of the most rewarding projects I’ve ever worked on. But what a journey it’s been. 
> 
> Even if I had just written this for myself and never shared it, I would have enjoyed this process. But you all have made it infinitely more enjoyable. Thank you to everyone who’s dropped kudos, commented, bookmarked, or even just followed along silently (hey, I do it too sometimes!). You’ve been a big encouragement. I’ve especially enjoyed hearing your predictions for what was coming or learning what your favorite parts were along the way. :) Whether you’ve been here from the beginning or you’re just now finding this, thanks for joining me for this adventure. It’s been my honor.
> 
> So what’s next? Well...there’s a decent amount of demand for a collection of fluff and one-shots in this little AU/post-canon universe I’ve created. I fully intend to oblige that request (who am I kidding? I want it, too). I don’t know exactly what form that will take or how often I’ll upload it, but just know that it’s coming. And if there’s a fluffy you’d like to see me write, feel free to drop it in the comments. Inspiration is always welcome. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. --Jeli


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